by Oisin McGann
'No!' said Daisy. 'Your father's given you power, so use it! Do you want him to think he can't even trust you to collect some rent? How can you help anybody then? Come up with another way for them to pay, but first stop this madness before somebody gets killed!'
Two men dived out of the engimal's way moments before its shovel slammed into the first house, driving through it as if it were a pile of leaves, tossing roofbeams and straw thatch into the air and crushing stones and furniture underfoot. Daisy caught her breath. There might have been people still in there. A woman was running down the road towards them.
'Please!' she cried. 'Please, my mother is in our house. She can't be moved. She has the fever and she can't be moved. For the love of God, please call off your animal!'
The woman was dressed in a worn skirt and blouse; a tattered headscarf hung down her back, where it had fallen as she ran. She made it as far as the door of the carriage, seizing Roberto's hand before Slattery dragged her away.
'Don't mind her, sir,' he said as he pulled her back. 'If the woman's old, she's dead anyway. We'd be doing her a mercy. The fever'll finish her off whether she's outside or in.'
'Take your hands off that woman!' Roberto snapped at the bailiff. 'Let her speak!'
With a barely concealed scowl, Slattery released the woman, who darted back to the side of the carriage. She was about to speak when Trom swivelled and lunged out of the ruins of the first cabin, crashing straight into the second one. The woman let out a whimper.
'My mother, sir.' She addressed Roberto. 'She's in bed with the fever in the middle house there. If we move her, it could kill her. No one else will take her in – not in the state she's in! They'd be puttin' their own at risk and I wouldn't ask it of 'em. Please, sir. Don't take our home!'
She pressed her cheek, wet with tears, against Berto's hand.
'Don't take our home! It's all we've got! We'll work harder for yeh. We'll make more than ever for yeh next year… just don't take our home!'
Berto withdrew his hand, self-consciously wiping it against his jacket. He looked sickened, but Daisy could see the resolve setting on his face. McHugh was steering the bull-razer across the yard towards the middle house.
'Slattery!' Berto said in a clear voice. 'Call off your man.'
'That's not a good idea, sir,' the bailiff told him. Roberto started to interrupt, but Slattery talked over him. The Patriarch had warned the bailiff about his errant son. 'It'll set a bad example. Take it from me, sir. They've all got sob stories if you stop to listen to 'em. Give them half a chance and they'll have the bloody parish priest out here screamin' blue murder. Don't go givin' them the idea they can-'
'My brother gave you an order, Mr Slattery!' Nate barked. 'Now do as you're bloody told!'
They all turned to look at him. His command hung there for a moment, and for that instant Daisy saw a look of his father about him. The air of a man who would not be defied. And Slattery saw it too. He pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew hard on it. McHugh did not hear it and Slattery blew again, twice more. Trom's driver glanced over to see his boss waving him back. He hauled in on the engimals reins just before it ploughed into the third house. McHugh looked at them in confusion and then pulled the engimal round and headed back down the field towards them.
Daisy leaned over and whispered something in Berto's ear. He nodded and beckoned to the peasant woman.
'This is not an act of charity, madam-' he began.
'I wouldn't ask for your charity, sir,' she cut in hurriedly. 'Just a fair chance to earn our keep – and for you not to send great big beasts tramplin' through our house.'
'Yes… yes, exactly.' Berto nodded, still a little unsure of himself. 'We'll send someone to, eh… to renegotiate the… the terms of your rent. We'll work this out…'
As he spoke to the woman, Daisy turned to watch Slattery walk away. The bailiff was shaking his head and she was sure she could hear him cursing to himself. He threw a glance back at her and she shuddered, putting a hand to her breast. She had never had anyone glare at her with such a expression of hatred. Not even Nathaniel.
'He's an animal, that man,' Berto said softly from behind her, and she could tell he was watching Slattery too. 'And he's really only loyal to Father. He despises the rest of us. Marcus had to hit him once, to pull him into line. You should have seen the look in Slattery's eyes then – I'd say there are few men who could strike Patrick Slattery and live to tell about it. I think Marcus would have fired the brute if he could, but Father wouldn't have it.'
'Marcus hit him?' Nate asked. 'Why? When did that happen?'
'It was a few years ago, when Marcus ran the Irish estates,' Berto told him. 'They had an argument while they were watching an eviction. Slattery said something about me being a soft-hearted wastrel – Heaven knows why. Marcus lost his temper and lashed out. You should have seen the look Slattery gave him after he was hit. It turned me cold.'
The peasant woman was hurrying back to her cabin. Slattery was climbing onto Trom's back. Taking the reins, he steered for home without waiting for further instructions. Neither he nor his men looked back at the carriage.
'I don't think Mr Slattery likes people who get in his way' Nate observed.
He didn't say any more, but Daisy knew what he was thinking. He was wondering if Marcus had been one of those people.
Nathaniel stood in front of his father's desk, his eyes lowered towards the old man's favourite pen, which sat on the blotter. The afternoon's outing with Trom was still fresh in his mind and it occurred to him that despite all his family's fears of armed rebels and stealthy assassins, that pen could affect the lives of more people in a stroke than any act of violence. Edgar picked up the pen, dipped it in a bottle of ink and scrawled his signature on a contract, changing some more lives. The Patriarch closed the ledger he had been reading and put it and the new contract to one side, wiping the powerful pen clean again.
'What news is there of Hugo's recumbent brother?' he asked, finally looking up at his son.
'Still no sign of Brutus recovering, sir,' Nate replied. 'Gerald is concerned about him. He says the wounds the man suffered before his… death are still open and some have become infected. He has found the beginnings of gangrene in some of them, and thinks he may need to operate.'
'Hmph,' Edgar grunted. 'Does Hugo know this?'
'Not yet, sir. Gerald wanted to tell you first.'
'Tell Gerald to do whatever he needs to do to keep Brutus alive,' the old man said. 'But now to the real business at hand. You have a few more weeks before you leave for America. When you are not working with Silas, I want you to act as Hugo's tutor. He is ignorant of the world around him, so you will educate him in how we live. He has been given rooms to himself, as have his sisters. Eunice and Miss Melancholy will take care of the women; Hugo is your responsibility.'
'Yes, Father,' Nate replied reluctantly.
He had no wish to be anybody's nanny. He was still no closer to finding out the truth about Marcus's death, and with little time left before his departure, he had been planning a trip up to the Mourne Mountains to see where his brother had died. Now he would have to cart that ancient relic up there with him.
'Father, can I ask something?'
'What is it?'
'If Hugo really was a Patriarch, isn't he… couldn't he-?' Nate's nerve failed him for a moment, but then he tried again: 'Why did you let him live?'
His father exhaled noisily, staring down at the top of the desk for a few moments.
'That is none of your concern, boy'
Nate ground his teeth, struggling to contain his temper. Here he was, taking on the responsibilities of the Heir, and still he was being treated like a child.
'You will teach our honoured ancestor everything he needs to know to pass for a modern man,' Edgar went on. 'And bring him up to date on the history of the family. However… I do not want him knowing the full extent of the family's wealth just yet.
'He and his sisters hail from more turbulent
times, when life was lived by the sword and empires were built by kings rather than trading companies. There may come a time when I choose to give him a role in our business, but first he must learn to understand modern politics and economics. Silas can assist you with whatever learning is beyond your limited expertise. But Hugo must be given a thorough introduction to the Age of Reason. He can know about our estates in Britain and Ireland, but the Americas were unknown in his time and I would prefer if he remained ignorant of them – and our business with them – for the time being. And that must be communicated to the other members of the family.
'Do you understand what I am telling you?'
'Yes, Father,' Nate answered with the hint of a smile on his face. 'You're saying that Hugo must not discover America.'
XXI
A POISONING OF THE BLOOD
Brutus's recovery was faltering. Nate entered Gerald's laboratory to find his cousin cleaning his surgical instruments with alcohol. Hugo was kneeling by his brother's bed, crying and clutching Brutus's right hand and offering prayers in Latin.
'The hand has to come off or he'll die,' Gerald told their ancestor, and Nate got the impression that he had been telling the old man this for some time now. 'The flesh of his hand is dead and the decay is producing toxins that are poisoning his blood. It is only because of your brother's extraordinary powers of healing that he is not dead already. But that will not last. The same flesh that can manage such a remarkable recovery is also producing a remarkably powerful toxin. The hand must come off.'
Nate took his place at Gerald's side. He had aided his cousin in minor operations before, but never something so drastic. They waited at Brutus's bedside for Hugo to finish.
'If it must be done, then so be it,' Hugo said at last, in a choked voice. 'I can only hope that he will forgive me for allowing him to be crippled so. This sword-arm was the most feared in Ireland.'
He wiped his eyes and stood back, a look of abject misery on his face. Gerald waved to four waiting servants, and together they lifted the giant over onto the operating table. Hugo watched Gerald set out a number of blades on a side table.
'Don't worry' Gerald reassured him, his attention already focused on the job at hand. 'He won't feel a thing.'
A bottle of laudanum stood on the side table, in case Brutus should suddenly wake up. Gerald placed a bone-saw beside the other blades. Hugo put a hand to his mouth and hurried out of the room.
'It's true, what he said,' Gerald muttered to Nate as he tied a tourniquet around Brutus's arm. 'I finally found a mention of them – in just one book, a rare family journal from our own library. But our dear old ancestors were hard to find – almost as if they had been erased from history. They were a mongrel breed who came over with the Normans in eleven seventy to try and help Dermot MacMurrough – that disgraced King of Leinster – to win back his lands. In return, he promised them land of their own.' He swabbed Brutus's wrist with alcohol. 'MacMurrough couldn't deliver, but the Normans took what they could by force of arms anyway.
'The Wildensterns were among them. Brutus is said to have killed nearly a hundred men in one day of battle. He was unstoppable. They seized land south of Dublin and held onto it by sheer ferocity. Hugo was a master strategist, apparently; but he was merciless – a complete bloody tyrant. Anyone who spoke out against him had their tongue cut out. The same went for any other body parts that offended him. Nearly forty years after he moved in, some fanatical monk convinced everyone that Hugo was the devil himself and led the people in an uprising against him and his family. They tortured the four of them for days, buried them alive and then tried to destroy every trace of their existence. Nearly managed it too, by the looks of it. I've always thought the Wildensterns didn't get here for decades after that. The ancestors we know about must just have followed these valiant pioneers. It seems we have Hugo to thank for starting the family on the road to greatness.'
Gerald picked up a scalpel and prepared to make a cut just above Brutus's right hand.
'Oh, I almost forgot,' he said to Nate. 'Take a syringe and go and ask Hugo if we can take some of his blood. Our mighty friend here is going to lose quite a bit and hopefully we can use Hugo's to replace some of it.'
As Nate picked up a syringe, he watched Gerald press the scalpel into Brutus's flesh, drawing the first blood.
'I wouldn't want to be around when he wakes up and finds someone's chopped his hand off,' he observed.
'These are extraordinary times,' Gerald replied. 'Who knows? Perhaps it'll grow back.'
Hugo's education began the following morning. Nathaniel's new charge wanted some sword practice and Nate, who was fast becoming convinced that the house was full of rebel spies, was happy to oblige. It was clear that he would need to stay on his toes if he was to survive long enough to make his trip to America – or rather, to solve Marcus's murder and then flee to wherever he could escape his father's influence. Hugo would hardly be a challenging opponent, old and decrepit as he was, but every bit of practice helped. And besides, it was more fun than teaching history or politics.
Nate led the old man to the gymnasium, noticing that Hugo was steadier on his feet than he had been the day before. His movements were becoming more and more confident as time passed.
The first argument started over which swords they were going to use. Hugo immediately chose a hefty longsword, the weapon of his time. Nate refused, on the basis that the old man was far too weak to be swinging four and a half pounds of metal around. It would also require the use of a buckler – a small shield – and Nate doubted that Hugo would be able to even lift a longsword with one hand, let alone swing one.
The old Patriarch persisted in demanding a heavy sword, pointing first at a Scottish claymore, then a cleaver-like falchion, and then finally a six-foot two-handed sword, which sent Nathaniel into fits of laughter. He could barely hold that one up himself. Instead, Nate took down a pair of épées; light and blunt and ideal for training. He handed one to Hugo, who looked at the flimsy sword in disdain.
'Do people commonly fight with knitting needles in this new age?' he grunted.
'It's built to develop speed, not to chop horses in half,' Nate replied. 'Let's see what you remember.'
Clancy, who was standing nearby, invisible as all good servants should be, helped the two gentlemen into their padded jackets, gauntlets and wire-mesh helmets and then stood aside to watch.
Nate raised his blade in front of him in salute, then took up the en garde stance, blade extended, his free hand above his shoulder. He nodded to Hugo, eager to see what his opponent would do. The Normans were masters of the battlefield in their day and he had no doubt Hugo was a seasoned warrior. The old man nodded back and held his sword horizontally at head-height in a pose that Nate recognized from medieval fighting manuals. Nate gave a resigned sigh; his opponent was determined to learn the hard way. Nate lunged in with an attack.
At this point all pretence at formality went out of the window.
Nate scored two strikes while Hugo was still making his first swing. The older man had clearly used a sword before, but he made big, sweeping moves that telegraphed his intentions and left him wide open. He wasn't used to the tighter, quicker style of modern fencing.
'Stop using it like a big sword,' Nate told him. 'Small movements… short and quick!'
He deflected Hugo's blade again and thrust the point of his sword into his opponent's chest. Hugo snarled and stamped on Nate's toe.
'Aagh!' Nate yelped.
Hugo pinned Nate's foot down long enough to smack him on the side of the helmet with his blade. Nate gave a curse and pulled free. He parried the next blow and jammed his point into the protective pad on Hugo's chest again. Hugo grabbed the blunt blade with his free hand and kicked Nate in the shin. Nate was so surprised, the old man managed to get two more kicks in with the other foot before swinging his sword so hard against the younger man's side that the blade bent.
Nate grunted in pain. He should have called a halt to it there and
then, but his temper flared and he swept Hugo's sword aside and jabbed his point into the man's mask. Hugo staggered back and Nate followed, lunging after him to whip the thin blade across the man's unprotected thigh – going for pain rather than points. Hugo let out a scream and jerked away, lashing wildly with his crooked sword.
They both came forward, clashing again, and Nate scored several more strikes as Hugo fought like a whirling dervish, his frantic efforts all the more comical because of his pathetically weak limbs. Nate would have laughed, but the old man was taking it so seriously. Nate leaned onto his back leg as Hugo came at him again, avoiding the thrusting point, and with a neat spiralling motion, whipped the blade right out of Hugo's hand.
That should have been the end of it, but even as he was disarmed, Hugo grabbed Nate's wrist. Wrenching his mask off, he whacked Nate over the head with it and then sank his teeth into the young man's arm, provoking another yell of pain. Only the material of Nate's sleeve saved him from broken flesh.
They pulled apart, breathing heavily. Hugo was wheezing through gritted teeth, clutching his chest, looking frighteningly absurd as he snatched his sword from the floor and tensed up his weak, aged frame, raising his bent weapon in a guard position.
'This is not how we practise fighting,' Nate growled. 'You have to use more control.'
'Any warrior knows you gain control by winning,' the old man panted. 'Perhaps you should practise less and fight more?'
He charged forward to make another sweeping attack with his sword. But Nate had run out of patience; if the old relic wanted to play dirty, that was his own lookout. With a flick of his wrist, Nathaniel parried the clumsy strike and stepped aside to let Hugo's momentum carry him past. Nate brought his knee up sharply into the other man's ribs, doubling him over and sending him crumpling to the floor.
'I'm a great believer in practice myself,' Nathaniel breathed, relishing the adrenaline rushing through his body. 'It's how I win.'
Hugo lay on the floor, struggling to get his wind back, the ache in his side etched in lines across his face.
