Ancient Appetites (The Wildenstern Saga Book 1)

by Oisin McGann

“Winters,” Nate said at last, “when you went with Marcus to the Mournes, you said you didn’t climb with him?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “But you prepared his gear, yes? He never let anyone else do it.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “You’re lying to me, Winters,” Nate hissed, his lips drawn tightly across his teeth, his fingers gripping the armchair. “And I’ve had enough of everyone’s lies. Now, you’re going to tell me what Marcus was doing in the Mournes, or I promise you I will make your future a living hell.”

  “Sir! I assure you … I … I wouldn’t …”

  The servant’s composure was starting to crack, but whether it was out of loyalty to his dead master or fear of disobeying the Rules of Ascension, he was still holding back what he knew. Nate stood up and strode over to him.

  Overcome with a sudden anger, he grabbed the footman by his collar and shoved him back against the wall. “Who packed up his climbing gear, Winters? There are crampons on the boots. Crampons are for climbing on ice! There’s no ice in the Mournes at this time of year. Marcus wasn’t climbing, so where the hell was he? What was he doing in the Mournes? Talk to me, man!”

  Winters folded visibly, his face a picture of resigned relief.

  “Master Marcus had come back to Ireland against the Duke’s wishes, sir,” he said. “The Duke felt that with the way things were with the civil unrest in the United States, it was no time to be taking a holiday. But Master Marcus was adamant; he … he was certain that the Duke’s brother was formulating plans to get hold of the business and that he would have to remove Master Marcus himself, as well as yourself and Master Roberto from his path to succeed. Master Marcus decided that the Duke wasn’t doing enough to stop him.”

  This did not surprise Nate in the least.

  “So if he was so concerned about an assassination attempt, why did he go gallivanting off to the mountains?” he asked again.

  “Master Marcus went to the Mournes to give himself an alibi,” Winters admitted quietly. “He meant to come back to the house in secret, and assassinate the Duke’s brother before himself, Master Roberto or you could be hurt.

  “I was to follow early the following morning in the coach and make it appear that I was traveling with Master Marcus. He would come back up to meet me on the road and arrive in the coach that morning, so it would appear as if he had been en route when Lord Wildenstern was killed.”

  Nate nodded to himself. Marcus was ranked above Gideon in the family, so the Rules of Ascension forbade him from killing his uncle in anything other than self-defense. But Marcus had not been prepared to wait for Gideon to hatch his plans and had taken matters into his own hands. And without the family’s sanction, it would be straightforward murder, so he could not afford to be caught. Pretending he was out of the house would also mean that Gideon would be easier to catch off-guard.

  “I reached the place where Master Marcus had told me to wait,” Winters went on. “The coach driver and I waited for a whole day. It was terrible, sir; just waiting like that with no way of knowing what was happening. In the end I decided to continue to the house and pretend I had been sent there on an errand. Master Marcus’s …” The footman’s breath caught in his throat. “Master Marcus’s body had already been found … in one of the secret passageways. It was the Duke who ordered that his son’s death should be covered up by saying it was a climbing accident. The witnesses were all arranged accordingly …”

  Nate released the manservant’s collar and trudged back to his chair, slumping into it. So the family had done what it did so well; it had made an accident out of a killing. Gideon, possibly with the help of his sons, had beaten Marcus. Nate had known them all his life and found the idea of Marcus being outwitted by their buffoon of an uncle hard to stomach; Gideon and his sons were backstabbing curs with no shortage of ambition, but they had little courage and more of an animal cunning than any real intelligence. They should not have been able to better Marcus. Still, anyone could get lucky.

  Nate rubbed his chin, overwhelmed by exhaustion. It seemed he had found the answer he was looking for and yet he was wholly unsatisfied. Why had Marcus spent his last words urging him to find Babylon? Nate was convinced there were still answers left to find. Then, when he was absolutely certain of Gideon’s guilt, he would decide on how he would have his revenge.

  The ancestors joined the family for dinner that evening. Despite having the kind of appetite expected of someone in their late teens, Nathaniel had long ago learned not to eat everything that was put in front of him. There was a massive quantity and variety of food, and to try some of every dish would render a person obese in a matter of months. Each dish was served in a single bowl or platter placed along the middle of the enormous table and the servants then dealt out food to each diner. Apart from reasons of presentation, the shared dishes meant that it would be very difficult for any family member to poison one rival without putting half the family to death.

  It was largely traditional, however, and their aurea sanitas gave the family a formidable resistance to poisoning anyway.

  Hugo had been given the place of honor at the table, at Edgars right hand—normally the Heir’s position—facing Gideon and Eunice. Elizabeth and Brunhilde sat alongside the husband and wife, facing Roberto and Daisy. Nate sat beside them. Beyond this clique sat the rest of the immediate family, over thirty in all. This included Gideon’s five sons, all younger versions of their father, their stocky, muscular bodies already a trifle overfed. The Gideonettes, Nate called them, and he regarded them now with barely concealed hatred. They tended to speak in short, barking sentences and wear truculent expressions. Each expressed his individualism by sporting his black facial hair in a different style. All the most up-to-date cuts of moustache and goatee were represented there that day.

  At the other end of the table, furthest from the important elders, were the younger members of the family, including Tatiana. Responsibility for their good behavior was entrusted to Aunt Elvira, an endearing old harridan with bad legs and worse hearing, who listened to everything with a horn extending from her ear and shouted “What?” down the table at regular intervals.

  “Moors?” Hugo muttered in disbelief as he gestured to the Duke’s two black servants, who stood at the wall behind their master. “You allow blackamoors inside your walls?”

  “I judge my servants on their ability and their loyalty, not on their race,” Edgar retorted. “They and their brothers provide the most expert service.”

  “Just wait until they find out slavery’s been abolished,” Daisy said under her breath.

  Nate gave her a hard look, but he was the only one who heard.

  Hugo and his sisters spent some time taking in the majestic dining hall with its magnificent stucco moldings and the painting of a heavenly feast on the ceiling. Tapestries of hunts and battles hung on the walls and there were six doorways and numerous alcoves where the servants could conceal themselves from the family’s view. The ancestors then turned their attention to the bewildering array of silver cutlery before them.

  “Start on the outside and work your way in,” Daisy whispered to them. “We’ll explain the more complicated bits later.”

  The first course was brought in, consisting of turtle soup, bread, chicken, plovers’ eggs, various salads and numerous other delicacies. The gorging began. The three ancestors had still said very little about their previous lives, and some of the family tried to engage them in conversation by asking about meals in their times. Hugo and his sisters said little or nothing in response and soon the questions dried up. The ancients clearly did not want to be bothered while they ate. And eat they did, greedily sampling one dish after another with insatiable appetites.

  Nate found Elizabeth staring at him as she ate. He fumbled with his knife and fork, suddenly nervous without knowing why. She looked no older than thirty-five or -six now, and while her face was beautiful in a cold, proud way, her eyes were so intense he couldn’t meet her gaz
e. They fixed on him now as she bit into a small tomato and a single drop of juice ran down the side of her mouth. His knife skidded across his plate with a loud squeak.

  The second course was served: steaming platters of venison, beef, pork, sturgeon, salmon, lobster and more, with heaps of vegetables, butter and more bread. MacDonald, the butler, was reaching across to carve slices from the breast of a roast goose, but Hugo couldn’t wait. He lunged out and grabbed a drumstick. MacDonald pulled back, but not in time to avoid Hugo’s impulsive lunge, and the razor-sharp edge of the carving knife caught the ancestor across the back of his hand.

  “Aargh!” Hugo roared. “You clumsy swine! Look what you’ve done!”

  A hairline cut across his knuckles started to bead with blood.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, sir!” MacDonald exclaimed. “It was an accident—I’ll fetch a bandage for you imm—”

  It was as far as he got. Hugo snatched the hand with the knife and wrenched it towards him. He pulled the knife from MacDonald’s fingers and pressed the servant’s hand flat on the table.

  “Hugo!” Edgar barked. “That’s enough!”

  Hugo raised the knife high and brought it down hard … slamming the point deep into the table between the butler’s thumb and forefinger, just missing his flesh. MacDonald yelped in fright and then gave a gasp of relief as he realized he had not been hurt. Panting a little, he gave Hugo an ingratiating smile and tried to take his hand off the table.

  And that was when Hugo grabbed the butler’s middle finger with his free hand. In a vicious movement he bent it back—back at an awful, impossible angle until there was a snap and MacDonald screamed. Hugo released him and let him stumble backwards, clutching his broken finger.

  “You’ll be more careful in future, you dolt,” he hissed, pressing a napkin to his own wound.

  A couple of the footmen rushed forward to help MacDonald, escorting him out of the room. Daisy had her napkin up to her mouth. Elizabeth let out a patient sigh and Brunhilde uttered a little giggle.

  “That wasn’t necessary—” Nate began, but Edgar cut in.

  “Hugo,” he rumbled, “we do not indulge in summary punishment of our servants in this house and we certainly do not tolerate it from our guests. There are protocols to follow for disciplining any member of staff. In future, you should direct any grievance to Nathaniel, who will deal with it in the appropriate manner.”

  “I will discipline servants as I see fit!” Hugo snarled. “And I will not be commanded by any man.”

  “You will be commanded by me, while you are under my roof and eating at my table,” the Duke told him in a low voice like stone grating across stone. “Have no doubt about it.”

  They stared at each other for what seemed like the longest time … and then Hugo dropped his eyes. He nodded truculently and, taking the knife that he had snatched from MacDonald, he cut some meat off the goose. He did not look at the Patriarch again.

  Nate found that he was gripping his own knife tightly and his hands were shaking. He took them off the table and pressed them against his thighs. For the briefest instant he had been sure that the two old men were about to have a go at each other. The idea thrilled him, but he knew it would not have been a fair contest. Hugo did not know how close he had come to being seriously hurt. Nate exhaled slowly and started eating again.

  “Ha!” Brunhilde blurted out. Baring her teeth to those around her, she grinned and chewed with her mouth wide open. “Fresh meat! Eat, everyone eat!”

  Not knowing how else to react, they obeyed.

  XXIII

  AN EVENING OF CONFESSION AND DISCOVERY

  SHAY NOONAN BURST into the damp, grotty room that he shared with his wife and slammed the door behind him. He didn’t dare light a candle, but there was enough light from the night sky shining through the window for him to see. Cathy was already waking up, looking up from the mattress on the floor as he grabbed her and shook her shoulders.

  “We have to get out of here, Cathy!” he whispered hoarsely to her. “Up into the attic, quick!”

  “What?” she asked dully. “What’re yeh talkin’ about, Shay? What ungodly hour is this to be wakin’ me up?”

  “Forget the bloody hour, woman! Slattery’s men are outside and they’re lookin’ for me. If they find either one of us, they’ll have our guts for garters. Now get up out of that bed and get yer dressing gown on. We have to go out by the roof.”

  “I’m not going out on any roof!” Cathy retorted. “I’ll catch me death o’ cold!”

  He seized her up roughly and shoved her threadbare dressing gown into her arms.

  “You’ll catch yer death of Patrick Slattery if he finds us here. Now come on!”

  He pulled over a chair and stood on it, pushing open the trap door to the attic. Then he took hold of the rim and pulled himself up. Cathy stepped up onto the chair, wobbling slightly as she was still drowsy, and held up her hands for her husband to grasp. With a grunt of effort, he heaved her up through the opening. He lowered the hatch and stood up, taking a stub of a candle from his pocket. He lit it and held it up. There were no windows or doors out to the roof, but over by the corner he saw what he was looking for: the glow of the night sky through a hole in the gabled roof.

  Guiding his wife across the rafters, he made his way towards the corner, stepping carefully from one board to the next. If either of them put a foot wrong, they could fall through the plaster ceiling into the room below. They ducked as the roof sloped down and finally reached the hole. It was small, but it was enough for Shay to reach through and push aside some of the slate roof tiles. It only took a minute for him to make it big enough to fit through.

  Ignoring Cathy’s whispered protests, he climbed out and pressed himself down against the slates.

  “Come on!” he hissed impatiently.

  She struggled clumsily through the hole and let out a moan of terror as she looked down at the ground, four stories below.

  “Don’t make a bloody sound!” he warned her.

  They heard the muffled voices of Slattery and his men through the floor of the attic. Shay looked around frantically for some way off the roof, but there was nothing. He heard the attic hatch being opened and quickly laid his body across the hole to block out the light inside. Every move he made seemed to cause the loose slates to shift, and he closed his eyes and lay still. A light was held up into the attic, he could see it shine through the gaps on either side of his body. He could hear Cathy’s teeth chattering and his own heart beating like a drum.

  The light disappeared and he took a deep breath before daring to peek inside.

  “They’re gone,” he said at last. “But they might have left someone behind down below to wait for us to come back. We’ll give it a while and then come down by one of the other hatches.”

  “Séamas Noonan, you tell me what’s going on this instant or I swear to Almighty God—”

  “All right, all right, woman!” he rasped, covering her mouth in exasperation. “Keep yer voice down! Me ’n’ Francie stole somethin’ from the Wildensterns, and I fenced it through Duffy in town. That’s how I paid off what we owed on the rent. But Slattery must have got to Duffy, ’cos now he’s on our trail. And because of what we stole, he thinks we were in on the explosion at the funeral, all right? If we’re caught, we’re dead. It’s as simple as that.”

  Cathy stared at him, aghast. For a minute she seemed lost for words—a rare event indeed. Leaning back against the slate slope, her feet flat against the tiles, she gazed out on the roofs of Dublin around them. It was a clear night and she could see as far as the river; she had never seen her city from this angle before and it was a beautiful sight. The air was clearer too this evening. There was less of the gritty smog that thousands of coal fires and factory smokestacks churned into the sky each day. She looked on her city with new eyes.

  “And what about Francis?” she asked at last. “He’s still at the house, isn’t he? How long before they figure out who he is and sling him int
o Kilmainham Gaol for the rest of his life?”

  “None of us will live to see gaol if we’re caught,” Shay muttered. “But we’ve got to warn Francie. He’s supposed to be doin’ a job for me tonight. It was goin’ to set us up for life, Cathy. But we’d have to leave the country. I had our escape planned—I’ve got a boat set to take us to England and everything; you, me, Francie and the girls. It’s all sorted. But we’ve got to hide up now until it’s ready to leave and we’ve got to get Francie out of that house—”

  “I don’t want to go to England!” Cathy exclaimed, close to tears.

  “Keep yer voice down, for God’s sake! They could hear us!”

  “We can’t just pick up and leave like that! I can’t … This … This is the last straw, Séamas; I’ve had enough of living with you and yer sins. Yeh’ll go up to that house and get Francie out before they realize his part in this. I’ve prayed for yer soul every night since our marriage, but the devil can have it now for all I care, yeh miserable guttersnipe yeh!” Her face creased into a mask of rage as she grabbed his collar. “But yeh’re not takin’ our little boy with yeh! I want you to pray for him now, Shay. Pray for all yeh’re worth!”

  “Get yer hands off me, I’m not prayin’ for nothin’!”

  Cathy smacked him hard across the face, nearly knocking him loose from his perch. He scrabbled for a grip on the tiles, sliding down before he caught himself. Staring in shock at his wife, he opened his mouth to curse her name but she slapped him again.

  “Yeh’ll pray, Séamas Noonan, or I’ll knock us both off this roof!”

  With disbelief written all over his face, Shay gaped at his wife. He had never seen her like this, but the look in her eyes convinced him she was serious. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes, and Cathy glared at him for a minute longer before joining him. And clinging there to that slate roof, they prayed for the life of their son.

  Most of the stable boys went to bed not long after nightfall. Their work was hard and they had to rise early in the morning, so only the diehards stayed up that night to play cards around the top of a crate by the light of a candle. Francie played until the last hand, and then waited impatiently for the others to go to bed. He said he was going out for a walk; it was forbidden by Old Hennessy, but most of the lads did it now and then. It was almost time to pull off the job of his life, but he needed the others to be asleep before he set about it.