He slammed Armand’s head down into the stone. He cried out again and then Parchard lifted him up, and then wiped at his face with a sodden towel, so he could see his torturer through the blood trickling from his scalp. “Young sire, this has gone on long enough.”
“Yes,” Armand whispered, drool and blood dripping down his chin. “And… and my father… a viscount… he will have your head…”
Parchard laughed. “Oh, in his secret heart, he will have that desire, but it will never happen. For you have been charged with treasonous crimes, and you have given me a signed document, consenting to the interrogation. In manners of treason, all forms of interrogation are legal. So your father has no say in the manner.”
Armand swallowed a glob of spit and blood, and his vision blurred, as the blood flow from his scalp resumed. Parchard brought forth his leather bag. “You’ve done better than Monsieur Templair or I ever thought. In fact, I wish I had made a wager with him, on how long you would last. But the first phase has been completed. The second phase is about to begin. I give you one more chance.”
His vision was blurry, pain radiated in burning waves from all parts of his body. Armand tried to focus on Windsor Senior and Churchill Grace, and it was hard, oh so very hard, and there was a soft clinking noise, of metal tools being brought out, displayed. On the floor there was a swatch of leather, and Parchard was laying out shiny metal instruments in loving precision. He saw Armand noticing and said, “This is the second phase. Everything you have felt has come from my hands alone. I will now use additional tools of my craft, to seek what I want. One last chance. The two names, and the address.”
The brightness of the tools seemed to hurt Armand’s eyes. He looked to Parchard. “Please. No more.”
“The names, the address,” he said.
Armand’s voice cracked. “Please. No more.”
He shrugged. “So we begin again, you and I.”
His hand lowered, picked something up, and that was it.
Armand screamed for long, long seconds, and then gave it up. All of it. The name of Windsor Senior, the name of Churchill Grace, and her address of 424 Chanson Street. Whistling with pleasure, Parchard wrote something lengthy on his pad of paper, and then presented it to Armand for signature. He tut-tutted the fact that neither of his hands could hold a fountain pen long enough to scrawl a signature, so he encouraged him to draw a shaky ‘X’, which he did. Then Parchard witnessed it, presenting it as Armand’s mark, and then put the tools away and stripped off his protective gloves and apron. By then Armand didn’t care any more… he still hurt, but he also had the dim realization that maybe Parchard would now go away, wouldn’t hurt him anymore, that it would all stop.
“Sire de la Cloutier,” he said, now standing by the door.
Armand grunted, turned away. He said, “I hold you no ill will, despite how long this took, and despite the fact I’ve missed my favorite niece’s birthday. But I will say this. You have a long and hard road ahead of you. Trust in the Emperor and your God, and all will be well.”
Armand felt like opening his mouth to say anything would bring worse pain back. So he stayed there on the floor, curled in a ball. Parchard knocked at the door and it was undone, and then he left. There was motion and sounds as the chair and table were removed, and at some point, a mattress and two buckets were brought in, but Armand didn’t care anymore.
Did not care one bit.
After a long while Armand managed to crawl over to one of the buckets. He sprinkled some water on his face and hands, and there was another hardboiled egg and a roll. Armand tore the roll in pieces and soaked the bread in the water, and tried to swallow without crying, which was hard to do. He broke open the egg and crumbled the cooked egg white and yolk into pieces, and swallowed that as well. Although the food should have made a difference, there was a dull, empty feeling down there that no food could satisfy. Armand had broken his promises, had betrayed two people --– one of whom was a man that he had known forever –-- and had humiliated and dishonored his Father and Mother.
He rolled up in a ball again on the mattress, tried to will away the long minutes and hours.
At some point during the day, the cell door opened up and Templair came back in. He was quick and to the point, holding two black and white photostats before Armand, eyes puffy, jaw aching and scalp still seeping blood. “Is this the man called Windsor Senior? And is this the woman called Churchill Grace?”
“Yes,” Armand croaked, his tongue and mouth thick and hurting. “Yes, it is.”
He went back to the door. “And what did you prove here by suffering, you stupid boy? What in hell did you prove?”
Armand couldn’t think of a thing, so he said nothing.
Buckets came in and buckets went out. Another long day and night passed, and then Armand heard voices out in the hallway, and the door clattered open as a woman said, “A minute. That’s all I need. A minute.”
Armand was sitting on the mattress and standing up, he stumbled, caught his balance.
His mother stood before him.
Armand wiped at his face. She stared at him with distaste. He coughed. “Mother, I –--“
She held up a manicured hand. “Quiet. Say nothing. Nothing at all.”
She was dressed like she was out for shopping, in a plain but well-tailored long blue dress, white sweater cascaded about her shoulders, a short umbrella in her hand in case a passing shower from Lake Ontario came by. She looked at her son like he was a beggar from the Docks District. Then she shook her head. “If you only knew what you have done to your family. What you have done to your Father, and to your sisters…”
His eyes were blurry. “Mother, it was nothing, nothing at all, and --–“
“Be quiet!” She moved her umbrella from one hand to another. “I have been working very, very hard to salvage this, to make everything all right, and to fix what you have broken. But I’m sure I will get no thanks from you, will I?’
“Mother, I –--“
She went on, dressing Armand down like he was a pantry maid, dropping a glass of wine on the main dining room carpet. “To have a son of mine arrested, the humiliation of that alone would be enough, but to be arrested by Imperial Security, to be charged with treason… what I had to do to protect your sisters and your Father… well, it’s done. I hope you’re happy.”
He stepped to her, and she stepped back. Armand said, “Please… can we go now? Can we?”
Mother looked surprised. “Go? What do you mean, go?”
It was like she had deftly placed a cold chunk of ice in Armand’s gut. “I… I want to go home. Aren’t you here to bring me home? Mother?”
A sharp shake of the head. “Your fate has been sealed, the moment you turned against your family and the Emperor. You are no longer part of the family, no longer anything. Do you understand that, Armand? You’re nothing now.”
“But Father, I have to talk to Father, please --–“
She stepped to the door, and in another surprise, tears formed in her eyes. Armand could not remember the last time he had ever seen her weep. “Your Father is a weak man. He knew what had to be done, to protect your sisters, to protect himself. Your sisters have a bright future ahead of them, a future you won’t be able to curse. You’ve chosen your fate. By this time tomorrow, you will be gone. Never to return to Toronto. Not ever.”
She rapped on the cell door and Armand couldn’t help it, he burst into tears. “Mom! Please!”
The door opened up and she stepped through, and Armand called after her, “Please… I have to see Father… you can’t do this to me!”
“I can and I did,” she said, now in the hallway.
“But Michele, Jeannette…”
“Not your worry. They are no longer your sisters.”
The door started closing. “But… but… Martel! Who’ll take care of Martel?”
The last Armand saw was the satisfied look on her face, despite the tears. “That damn mutt? I did what I should have done
years ago, when he started jumping on the beds. I had him shot, the dirty beast.”
The door slammed shut, and Armand threw himself down on the hard mattress, cursing the day he had wheedled Father into letting him go to that southern trip with him, for that’s where it had all started, all those weeks ago.
Randall de la Cloutier was standing outside of the servant entrance at his family’s home, feeling warm with anticipation. Yesterday the head of the servant family here --- Moran Senior --- had passed along a note that had been sent over from Foss Karen, the servant girl he had briefly encountered at the reception for the emperor’s nephew. The note had been sweet and to the point: she was delivering some hard-to-find spices to Randall’s kitchen staff, as a favor from her mistress. Could she have a moment or two just to say hello?
Sure, Randall thought. Why not? He was under no illusion that the servant girl had any particular interest in him; her only interest was in his title, in Randall’s father’s position, and what crumbs or presents could be showered upon her. Despite Armand de la Couture’s words from that reception, Randall thought he was fine with it. Some boys were handsome or talented or otherwise blessed. Randall would use what he had to get what he desired, and to hell with anyone who cared.
A horse-drawn coach halted at the end of the rear driveway, and Foss Karen nimbly stepped out, and started walking up the pavement, wicker basket in hand, a smile on her eager face. Randall felt a jolt of shameful pleasure, knowing what was going to be his in a short while: women coming towards him, seeking attention, seeking favors, all willing to trade something for his attention, and when he was in the Palace --- when his destiny was fulfilled --- thousands upon thousands would be his to choose from.
A touch on his elbow jolted him. He turned, saw it was his man Munro, who looked troubled. “What’s going on?” Randall asked.
“It’s about Armand de la Cloutier…”
“Yes? Why bring him up now? I thought your… solution would take place in a few days. A traffic accident, outside of our prep school.”
Munro pursed his lips. “It seems your father’s ministry has gotten ahead of us. Armand’s been arrested for treason. I just learned of it. He is to be deported in under an hour.”
Randall kicked at a stone nearby. “That’s not right! You were supposed to… oh damn. Where is he off to?”
“Exiled out to the west. I’ll know the exact location later today.”
Randall thought quickly. “Do you have anyone out there you can trust?”
Munro said, “It will take some time. It’s a large place… and I will need to learn which barracks and work station he ends up at. But it can be done.”
“Then do it,” Randall said.
“It might take some funds and --–“
Foss Karen came up and a breath of wind brought her scent to Randall. “No more talk. Just do it. But I need you to take me and this servant girl for a ride.”
“But about de la Cloutier…”
“Don’t worry,” Randall said, smiling at the approaching servant girl and taking her basket. “It’s all connected.”
They came for Armand later that day, tossing an orange jumpsuit at his feet. “Change,” a bored guard said. “If you don’t change, we’ll help you and you’ll get some new bruises along the way.”
Armand moved slowly, knowing he was in shock, because he actually glad to be wearing something relatively clean. He stood, quivering from cold and fear, when the door opened up again and Templair was there, wrist shackles in his hand. He tossed them over. “Put them on. Now.”
He picked up the metal shackles, winced at the pain that went through his ribs and hips when he bent over. As he stood up and clumsily snapped the shackles about his wrists, Templair read from a piece of parchment in a bored voice: “Upon investigation by the Imperial Security Service, Armand de la Cloutier has been found guilty of treason against the Emperor, said Armand de la Cloutier is now sentenced to exile and life imprisonment to the Oil Sands Authority of the Kingdom of Manitoba, may God and the Emperor have mercy upon him.”
Templair looked sharply at him. “Do you understand what I just said?”
Armand stepped closer to him, shuffling his feet. “You mean… I’m going to the oil sands, for life?”
He had a satisfied smirk on his face. “That’s right. Life.”
Then something suddenly came over Armand, cold and hard, and now standing close to Templair, he moved snap-quick, butting his head forward, like a cheat in a soccer game, smashing the man’s nose. Damn, it hurt, and it hurt even more when the guards came after him with their truncheons. But there was a sparkling bit of cold joy there, like a morning ice crystal, hearing Templair grunt in pain and to see him holding a handkerchief to his bloodied nose.
“Out,” he said, “take the little piece of shit out to his destiny.”
Armand was half-dragged, half-carried down the stone hallway.
More rooms, more hallways, and then he was in a garage, being led to a large motorcoach, the rear black metal doors propped open. There were just a few people in the garage, and Armand was raised up and lifted into the rear of the coach, wincing in pain. Wooden benches lined both walls of the coach. He was alone. Voices outside and the door slammed shut. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t particularly care.
There was a sharp movement as the coach moved forward, and Armand made out the sound of doors being wheeled open. The coach moved again and he could hear the sounds of people and traffic. They were outside. Up above both wooden benches were screened openings, and Armand got up and looked out. His heart thumped. He knew where they were, on the main avenue heading to Government Square. Was it really that long ago that he had been going up this same road, in the back of Father’s coach, in comfort and security, knowing who he was, where he belonged, and what kind of future was ahead for him?
The coach jolted as it came to a stop. Armand fell to the floor and swore, and then got himself back up again. He looked out the screened windows, and then bit his lip hard, hard enough to make it bleed. They were in Government Square, all right, next to the wrought-iron fences, and by the spikes where the condemned were displayed.
Across from him, so fresh that blood had streamed down the black metal of the pike, was the head of Windsor Senior, his worn, leathery face at an angle.
The coach drove along and bumped some more, and he could now smell burning coal. Another jolt and Armand had to blink his eyes as the rear doors opened up. “Step lively, step lively, out of there!” a voice yelled out.
Armand stepped down, still blinking, and rough hands brought him to the ground. Other coaches were here as well, doors opened up, other men in orange jumpsuits being led out. They were outside a rail yard near the Spire and the Coliseum, and there were freight cars and passenger cars in the distance, and one special train and length of cars before him.
A thump to the shoulders. “This way, prisoner, this way.”
Armand followed a guard, dressed in dark gray trousers and tunic, smeared with coal dust. A short sword was buckled at his side, but there were other Imperial Security guards as well, carbine rifles held at the ready. Before him was an open metal and wooden gate, and standing to one side, next to a young servant woman, was a boy a year older than him, with a satisfied and wide grin on his pampered face.
Randall de la Bourbon.
He gave Armand a mocking bow. “My dear Armand, I’ve heard about your troubles and tribulations… how awful.”
What could he say? Armand tried to move into the compound but Randall held up a soft, pudgy hand. The guard before him halted. Randall laughed and put his arm around the shoulder of the servant girl --- whom Armand recognized from the night of the Palace Hall reception, and who was now actually smiling --- and he said, “Do you remember what you told me a while ago? That there were laws against what I was doing? So tell me, bright peasant boy, who’s in trouble now? Who’s off to the oil sands, and who gets to continue to play with his toys?”
&nb
sp; Now the guard started moving again and Armand said, “One day… one day we’ll have this out, Randall.”
That earned him another laugh. “Since you’re sentenced to life in the oil sands, and I’m not, I don’t think that’s going to happen. Enjoy your days and nights, for I’m certainly going to enjoy mine. My days are going to be so very, very bright with you gone, my dear boy. And when I can, I’ll give my best greetings to your poor, sainted mother, even if she is such a despicable woman.”
Armand tried to move but the guard twisted his arm, held him back, and he yelped in pain. Randall smiled. “You didn’t know that, Armand, did you. But the rest of the nobles… they know that while your father was away on his trips, your dear mother would do almost anything, including insulting your own father, to gain favors or influence.”
Now the guard seemed to take pity on Armand, for he tugged him away. He went through the gate, not wanting to hear that smooth, mocking voice anymore, and before him were a few score of fellow prisoners. The guards led them to a length of open boxcars. They milled about, all of them with wrist shackles and some also shackled at the ankles. There was a raised wooden platform and a burly, bald man with glasses perched on the end of his nose got up, dressed in the same dark gray tunic and trousers.
“Prisoners of the Emperor!” he called out, speaking in a clear and firm voice. “In a few minutes you will be placed in your transport boxcars. The trip will take approximately two days. You will be left alone, but any criminal activity within these cars will not be tolerated. So those who think you will escape punishment by defacing or destroying Imperial property, or by injuring your fellow prisoners, think again. We find out. We always find out. And your punishment will be quite severe.”
The Noble Warrior (The Empire of the North Book 1) Page 15
