The Witch Watch

by Shamus Young

  The headmaster was amused by her anger, “Well, Mouse here can scurry away, free as you like. The master is done with him. And His Lordship will grant a reprieve for Maypole’s mother. Just don’t go back to England. Stay in America or go where you like, but England belongs to Lord Mordaunt now.”

  Alice raised an eyebrow, “So your master’s generosity consists of offering us what we already have? And in exchange, all he asks for is a continent? Grand dealings for a man who has yet to escape the dirt he was buried in.”

  “You’re a cheeky bird, aren’t you?” Graves said. “If that’s your thinking then we’ll see to Maypole’s family. His mum, and whoever else shares his name or blood. We’ll cut their throats and find out if a dead man can weep. After that we’ll take Mouse here back home with us.”

  “No!” Simon gasped.

  “Your threats are empty. We’ll be allowed off the boat long before the steerage passengers. You have no chance at reaching Mrs. Hiltman ahead of us, and you cannot hope to prevail against us in a fight.”

  Graves rose up as if he were going to make some move, but stopped when a man cleared his throat behind him. Three crew members had gathered around him. They grabbed him and hauled him out before he could speak in his defense. Their waiter came and apologized profusely for the intrusion. He asked if Alice was unharmed so many times that she nearly got angry with him.

  Gilbert awoke in confusion. A bell was ringing. Did he hear gunshots a moment ago, or was that a bad dream?

  He found himself soaking in the tub. It was a small thing, more suited for a lady than for a soldier, much less a man of his size. He stirred, and was suddenly reminded of the numerous wounds and bruises all over his body, which is what led to the bath in the first place. The water was murky with dirt, and tinged red.

  He rubbed his eyes, gently. He drew a deep breath, despite the protest from his ribs. How long had he been asleep? The water had long gone cold. The barracks were inexplicably empty. Even the beds were stripped. The place was deserted. He sadly noted the fresh graffiti on the walls. Also, the wall he’d repaired had been smashed open again.

  He lifted himself out of the tub uneasily. Once he was standing on the cold wood floor, he noticed that all of his things were gone. There was nothing that he might use to dry off, much less clothe himself. He sighed. The men had returned to their pranks.

  The bell was still ringing. It was the alarm bell, and was most likely part of the prank. Clearly the men stole his clothes and anything else he might possibly use to cover himself, and then rang the bell to oblige him to run outside naked.

  His boots were still sitting on a chair beside the tub. He’d intended to clean them while he bathed. He did his best to push the water off of himself using his hands, and then pulled on his boots.

  Gunshots rang out. They were distant. Gilbert’s heart jumped as he realized they might be coming from the manor. The alarm could very well be real. He remembered what the viscount had said to the men a few days earlier.

  Prank or not, his duty was to protect his master. If that meant running afoul of this prank, then it was his duty to run across the grounds naked and endure the scorn. No fit soldier could ignore the alarm and keep his honor. He exited through the broken wall.

  It was sunset. The red sun slid beneath the ocean of dark trees like a man drowning. The manor was already in shadow. Not a soul could be seen outside, not even the scurrying kitchen servants, who were usually moving about preparing the evening meal at this time. Gilbert thought he heard screams and sounds of struggle above the sound of the wind.

  A gunshot sounded. This one was unmistakable. The alarm bell fell silent.

  He charged up the hill and hid beside the bushes near the rear entrance. He crept around to the side of the house to see two men wearing red sashes. They were dragging one of the house guards away from the bell. The man was limp in their arms.

  Quickly he returned to the rear entrance. Who was attacking in such numbers? He’d never heard of anyone having the audacity to assault the home of an English nobleman.

  His teeth had begun to chatter. The early autumn air was quickly sapping his strength. He needed to get indoors before he froze.

  He ducked in through the back door and found himself in the kitchen. A pot was boiling over. A lamp was lit for the cook, but the room was empty. There was shouting elsewhere in the house, the cries of men fighting. The place smelled like potatoes, and Gilbert was suddenly aware of how ravenously hungry he was.

  He’d looked through the back door a few times, but he’d never been in the kitchen proper. He had no idea where to go from here. There was no sense in him charging into the battle unarmed and naked. He glanced around the room for something that might be of use as a weapon. There was a paring knife on the counter, a tiny thing made for the hands of a woman. He took it. Hopefully there would be something more substantial nearby.

  Gilbert opened up the door to the nearby closet, and found two women huddled inside, blinking at the sudden light. One was the portly cook. The other was a young servant that Gilbert had never met before. They screamed first with surprise, and then wailed in terror when they saw their hiding place was discovered by a naked man brandishing a knife.

  “No! Shh!” Gilbert said desperately, but the women were inconsolable. Over their cries he could make out the sound of booted footsteps in the hall.

  In a panic, he lunged for the nearby stairs. He strode up the curving staircase and reached the top just as the screams were renewed below. The shouting of men’s voices was heard. They did not sound like anyone Gilbert knew. At first he thought he’d abandoned the women to death, but their cries continued. It didn’t sound like they were being hurt; only frightened.

  Gilbert was at one end of a long hallway that seemed to run all the way to the front of the house. This was his first time inside of the Manor, and he was surprised at how ghastly it was. The place was made of dark wood, covered in dust. Cobwebs clung in the corners. Did the maids not clean here? Claw-shaped fixtures protruded from the walls, holding up small candles against the smothering dark. A rich, yet frayed red carpet ran along the floor.

  He almost went through the nearest door, but then stopped himself. If the men gave chase then that would be the first place they would look. Hoping he was being clever, Gilbert ran several doors down and opened a door at random. This brought him into the bedchamber of His Lordship Barrington Oswald Mordaunt.

  This was plainly the master bedroom, although it did not look lived-in at all. Heavy curtains blocked out the waning light of the sun. Gilbert pulled these open so that he could see. The room was much like the rest of the upstairs - expensive and in a terrible state of decay. The fireplace was dark and cold. The bed was covered in a generous layer of dust, so that the slightest disturbance would send clouds of it into the air.

  He needed to do something about his nakedness. He opened the wardrobe nearby, which was full of shirts that were too small to be put on. He sighed, and pulled one down. Perhaps he could tie the arms around his waist and fashion himself a sort of kilt. It would leave his backside exposed, but it was better than nothing.

  Suddenly he noticed the back wall of the wardrobe was split with age, and a dim red light was seeping through the cracks. He pushed on it, and it seemed to give a bit. It rattled like a shut door, although it was too dark to see any hinges or handle. He gave another shove and the door gave way with the sound of splintering wood. He shrugged. There was probably a less destructive way to open it, but he didn’t have the patience for that sort of search.

  Through the door was another room, one not connected to the main hall. The walls and floor were made of rough, unadorned wood. Unlike the neat, dusty bedroom, this room looked well-used. Books were piled beside a cluttered desk. There was a table nearby with several abandoned plates spread around a single lit candle. As Gilbert entered, a rat grudgingly gave up the plate of crumbs it had been working on and waddled off into the shadows.

  Instead of carpet, the floo
r was covered in smears of white dust. It was chalk. It almost looked as if someone had been writing and erasing.

  A white robe was hanging on a hook just inside the door. Gratefully, Gilbert slipped it on. It was light and thin; clearly something designed to be worn over one’s regular clothes. Jagged letters were embroidered on the front, although the work was so poorly done that the letters were impossible to recognize.

  Beside the robe was a large staff, like the kind carried by a church hierarch. It was nearly as tall as a man. It was made of brass, and had a good bit of heft to it. The top was an elaborate headpiece. These were usually icons or the faces of saints, but in the flickering candlelight this one sort of looked like a skull. Curiously, the tip was a clamp that held a piece of chalk. He pulled this out, and found the tip of the clamp to be moderately sharp. It wasn’t a proper weapon, but it was long, heavy, and pointy, which was close enough to a spear for his needs.

  He was clothed and armed. Now he just needed to locate the battle and join it. He was worried at how quiet things had become. The shouting had died down a few minutes ago, and the thumping had stopped shortly after that.

  There was another door opposite of the one he had come in. It opened quietly with just a gentle push. Gilbert stepped through and found himself at the top of the imperial staircase. Harsh voices came from below. Gilbert drew close and saw that the Lord Mordaunt was standing at the base of the steps, amidst a field of carnage. Many of Gilbert’s fellow guards were piled around the door, along with the bodies of a few men in (formerly) white robes. Aside from His Lordship, everyone was wearing red sashes.

  The battle was clearly over, and it had been a decisive victory for the opposition, who were obviously members of the church. They had come in overwhelming numbers. Gilbert was baffled. He couldn’t imagine what sort of thing would drive them to this level of violence.

  A hierarch was standing in front of Lord Mordaunt, reading something to him. (At least, Gilbert assumed the man was a hierarch. His robes seemed to say so, although he bore a sword instead of a scepter and was wearing a good deal of blood.) Gilbert crept closer in order to hear.

  “These are your own words,” the hierarch said.

  “They are,” Mordaunt said proudly and defiantly.

  The hierarch furrowed his brow and looked around to his men, who replied with shrugs. Scratching his head he said, “In all my years of service to the church I’ve never heard of such a thing. You admit, openly, to capital witchcraft.”

  “I never confessed to ‘witchcraft’. Witchcraft is the name given by fools. Its proper name is sorcery. The dark art. The great art.” The men grumbled at this.

  “But, you do not renounce it?” the hierarch asked.

  “Never!” Mordaunt said. Gilbert could not see his face from where he was, but he thought the viscount sounded almost smug.

  “Then why did you send us your confession?”

  “Because I defy you. I defy you, your church, and your impotent god!” Some of the young men had to be restrained at this, so fierce was their desire to punish him for this blasphemy.

  The hierarch looked even more baffled, “Was it your purpose to have us come here and kill you?”

  “My purposes are beyond your understanding. But if you find the courage to raise your blade to me, I will be much amused.”

  The hierarch looked down at his sword doubtfully, “If you are so eager for my blade, then why did you send your men to throw away their lives in your hopeless defense?”

  Mordaunt gave no answer.

  “Do you have nothing to say in your defense?” the hierarch asked.

  When it was clear the man was unwilling to speak, the hierarch pronounced his judgment, “Lord Mordaunt, by the rights given me by God, the saints, and the throne of Her Majesty the Queen of Great Britain, and on the basis of your own confession both written and verbal, I condemn you to death. I would beg God to have mercy on your soul, but I’m sure you would only refuse it.” The hierarch ran the viscount through.

  “That is the most inexplicable arrest I’ve ever performed,” said the hiearch, shaking his head. “He didn’t run, or fight, or deny the charges, or claim bewitchment.”

  “They always claim bewitchment,” one of the men lamented.

  “Who is this?” came a voice from behind Gilbert. Suddenly every eye in the room turned from the viscount to the top of the stairs. Gilbert turned around and saw a pair of Red Sashes had come up behind him.

  Gilbert wasn’t sure if he should hold onto the staff to defend himself, or surrender. In a panic, he tried to do both and raised the staff over his head.

  “Spellcraft!” boomed the hierarch. “Arrest him!”

  The men tried to lay their hands on Gilbert. He grabbed one by the arm and flung him down the steps. The other he stabbed in the foot with his scepter. It was a clean strike, although the tip snapped off in the man’s boot. As the zealot stumbled, Gilbert spun his weapon around and struck the man in the side of the head. He had no desire to fight these men, but he was frightened, confused, and acting on instinct.

  The Red Sashes began flowing up the stairs after him. He turned and fled back to where he had come in, only to find the secret door had sealed itself. He couldn’t find any latch or seam that might tell where the door had been located. He clawed at the wall, cursing and banging furiously on the wood. He considered simply running down the main hall, but that way was hopeless. He couldn’t hope to outrun this many men. He needed to vanish from sight.

  He was still beating the wall when the men cornered him. He swung his scepter. One man was struck in the nose, another was tripped, and another doubled over from an elbow in the pills, but then they overwhelmed him. He was pinned and his weapon taken.

  “Don’t let him speak,” commanded the hierarch. “I see his game now.”

  Many men had put their weight on him. Someone put their hand over his mouth, although it wasn’t needed. Gilbert could barely breathe, much less talk.

  The hierarch stood over him, “So, your deception is revealed, your Lordship. I don’t know why you sent the confession, if indeed you did. But now I see your plan. You hoped your men would drive us off. When that failed, you bewitched one of your own servants to come and claim to be you.”

  Gilbert looked at the hierarch, wide-eyed.

  “Yes. I see I guess right,” the hierarch smiled. “Let us put your trickery to an end.”

  Gilbert felt a sharp pain in his chest as the sword came down. He began to feel very warm, and wet, and eventually drowsy. The voices in the room faded, and darkness overtook him.

  VI

  “What a horrible way to die,” Alice remarked.

  “I don’t know that it was particularly horrible,” Gilbert replied. “I’ve seen men die worse deaths.”

  They were walking on the promenade deck. The sun had gone down, and Gilbert had come out for a stroll as soon as the bulk of their fellow passengers had gone to bed. He walked with his head bowed. He leaned on his cane, which made it easier to obscure his face if someone happened by. Alice was carrying a parasol because it amused her. Simon had remained in the room. At last exhausted of new sights to marvel at, he had fallen asleep happy and full.

  Alice placed her hand on Gilbert’s shoulder, “I admire your attempt to be brave about your demise, but your own voice unmasks you. You are unsettled by the memory.”

  “I suppose,” Gilbert admitted. “I was not expecting... Well, I don’t know that you can ever expect to die in any particular way, but I am surprised by the circumstances of my death.”

  “When did this come to you? And are you sure of it? I’d heard that the viscount was executed by the church but I had heard nothing of the battle.”

  “The memory came to me earlier today, when you and Simon were dining in the saloon and I was alone. My memories usually come back to me at these times, when I am sitting alone and quiet. They might have returned sooner if the days since my awakening hadn’t been so filled with chaos. And yes, I’m sure
the memory is correct. The details are vague, but the parts I’ve told are the parts in which I have confidence. Since I was awakened I’ve been struggling to recall how I met my end. Being dead is bad enough, but being dead and not knowing how you died is even worse. I thought it might have been an accident that took me. Or the work of one of my fellow guards. Or chance illness. Or perhaps some treachery on the part of my employer. But the church?”

  They listened for a moment to the soft churning of the sea below. The engines of the ship rumbled in the distance, a low sound that was more felt than heard. Overhead, the smokestack did its best to blot out what remained of the night sky, and the half-moon watched them from behind shreds of dark cloud. The lights were going out on the ship. A few suspicious faces appeared in windows as they strolled past at this unnatural hour.

  “You died in the line of duty, if that’s of any comfort,” Alice said at last.

  “It is, although it might be overly generous to call my actions ‘duty’. I was running about unprepared and confused, and in the end I didn’t do anything to save my master.”

  “Did you want to?” Alice asked curiously.

  “I’m not sure. It was very confusing. A soldier is honor-bound to protect his charge. On the other hand, the viscount seemed to be attempting suicide by way of the church. And he was a blasphemer and a sorcerer. To defend him or abandon him? It was dishonor, either way. Which probably explains why I did neither and simply stood there like an imbecile.”

  “But part of the mystery is untangled,” Alice said brightly as she twirled the parasol on her shoulder. “The fact that your master and his men were slaughtered by the church explains how you came to be mistaken for His Lordship. And to their credit, their blundering undid his plans.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Gilbert said. “If the Witch Watch had performed the arrest, he would have been buried in his proper tomb, and he would have been revived instead of me.”