As always, when he was granted an audience, Bairstow was painfully aware of the hundreds of eyes of the members of the House of Representatives that sat in rising rows of rich mahogany chairs and desks on either side of the long chamber. This is where the council adjudicated with the Lord Protector when they weren't bickering in their own council chambers. They were oblivious to the beauty that surrounded them. The entire throne room was made from the purest marble, cut from the quarries in the northern region. Its domed ceiling rose over fifty feet above his head and was covered with large stained glass windows that splashed every imaginable colour across the room. The white marble was thickly veined with bright silver and gold and it blended beautifully with the tall carved and gilded statues of former kings that lined the back wall on either side of the throne. High, and emerging from the walls, flew white marble angels, brandishing shields and swords of fire. Mixed within the angels cowered fat, intricately carved cherubs surrounded by vines with bunches of grapes bursting with juice. The throne room reminded everyone of the days when the Church dominated the governance of the populace. It reminded Bairstow of the Church's avarice and apathy. It is beautiful, he thought. If only they could see it.
Despite the majesty of the room, Bairstow knew the truth that few would admit. It was from this room that the land was ruled by the corrupted iron grip of the Protector. Behind him, crouched in their seats, the members of the House of Representatives sat in two broad tiered arcs divided by a broad passage through their centre that led directly to where the Protector sat perched like a vulture on his throne. All the council members knew they were nothing but figureheads; each of them were methodically placed by the Protector, all their decisions carefully orchestrated and in line with the wishes of the Protector. All a guise of the republic democracy the Revolution paid for in blood thirty years ago. The Protector had long ago given up sitting at the small chair placed below and to the right of the throne. Now he sat high up on the throne, lazily reclining from the vast height.
As always, as Bairstow stood in the chamber gazing up at the Protector, he could feel the combined heated eyes of hatred from the council on his back. He was despised by them for all that he represented and for their falsely perceived notion of largess on his part with the Protector. They felt he had some degree of autonomy and envied and craved it for their own. It still surprised him how little they knew about just how little authority he actually held. It grated him, as the senior military officer in the Realm – presiding over the Army of the Realm and the Navy of the Realm – that his actions and decisions were carefully orchestrated and controlled by the Protector. He was nothing more than a puppet. Just like the rest of them. And yet, they chose hatred instead of empathy. They rejoiced when the Protector openly exposed his lack of respect for the Knight. And the Protector lorded it over him every chance he had these days.
His only friend in this chamber, if he could be trusted, was the Dean of the Word and Advisor to the Lord Protector, Robert Hargreaves. He sat in that same abandoned chair beside the throne in its long shadow. To Bairstow, Robert looked particularly distressed at the moment and he knew that this did not bode well for him. Robert clenched his hands together, the knuckles white with the effort, and refused to look toward Bairstow and looked instead to the rear of the chamber as if something interesting there had caught his eye.
Despite the lack of respect from the Protector, Bairstow knew that his men did not share that same lack of respect and he wrapped that security and trust around him like a blanket. These thoughts kept him grounded and safe from exploding in anger during his audiences with the Protector. The last audience – the one he had just been dismissed from – had been particularly insulting and he barely managed to remain civil and keep his tongue in check. Sometimes he would entertain the image of thrusting his sword deep into the belly of the Protector and slowly twisting it, reveling in the sounds of his screams. As always, his sword was surrendered at the entrance to the chamber and it was held guarded by his brother's men, a good hundred feet away.
So he stood with his back straight, his sword and the badge of office it represented absent from his side, and listened to the Protector as he started to find yet more fault in how he managed the security of the country. The soft chuckles and whispers from the council were amplified and loud in the amazing acoustics of the large chamber. Robert flicked his eyes once to Bairstow and winced in sympathy. Bairstow glared back at him and tried to send his thoughts to him. Fuck off, Robert, he thought with real feeling as he turned his eyes back to the Protector.
"My dear Bairstow," the Protector started, and as usual, he intentionally left out his honourary title and rank. Bairstow gritted his teeth and steeled himself to survive the carefully pointed insults the Protector would no doubt start stabbing him with. "I'm so glad you found time to answer your summons to the House of Representatives. I and my colleagues have spent the time ruminating at what could have possibly delayed your appearance, hmmm?"
Bairstow knew better than to try and answer a rhetorical question and chose to stare straight ahead at the leather boots worn by the Protector. His boots were always polished to a high shine by one of Protector's guards assigned directly to the Protector by his brother. Bairstow spotted a fresh scuff on the right toe and began to muse on what could have caused the mark. The Protector carried on speaking more to the amusement of the House of Representatives than Bairstow directly. Bairstow knew that eventually he would tire of the game and that he would get around to stating the business he had been summoned to address. He just had to suffer this fool for a short time and he could be back in his office dealing with military matters and the security of the country.
"We decided that you were most likely delayed by some urgent military matter. Would you not agree? Is that why you have made this honoured council wait in speculation and rising ire for a mere member of the military to respond to an urgent summons? Hmm? Bairstow? What say you?"
Bairstow raised his eyes to look directly into the face of the Protector. The petty amusement etched there by years of passing scorn and insults to better men was plain for all to see. This man held all the power in this country and ruled as a monarch, despite the cost it had taken to place him there. Bairstow and his men were answerable directly to this dishonourable man. The House of Representatives had no authority over the military while martial law still ruled – a martial law enacted by the Protector that provided his position with direct control over the military. A law that should have been repealed years and years ago by the House, he thought with disgust. But the Protector would never allow that vote to happen and he retained all the powers afforded a Lord Protector when the realm was in a state of war. It was surreal how all reason seemed to flee in this chamber. No one could honestly believe that any war remained in this land, yet his powers remained unchallenged.
Bairstow pondered how best to respond to the question of the Protector. The truth – that he received the summons and had opted to finish a set of orders of no real importance to spite the man – could obviously not be voiced. A simple grovelling response often worked well with the Protector, but as Bairstow gazed at the vengeful delight in the Protector's eyes and saw out of the corner of his eye that the Adviser was now wringing his hands, he knew that perhaps he should have come at once rather than delay by the hour it had taken him to pen the meaningless orders. Grovelling would not be enough. Still, he mused, he had felt some measure of delight in being able to keep the Protector waiting for him for once, but realised that perhaps he had overstepped himself this time.
"Nay, my Lord Protector. I have no excuse. I beg the House's pardon in keeping them from the urgent business of the land. I was delayed by paperwork and the time escaped me. My age has sped the sands in the glass more and more these days, My Lord."
The Protector's eyes gleamed and Bairstow tried to think fast on what he had said to make the Protector happy, but before he could even finish going over his words in his head, the Protector spat at his feet and
barely missed his equally shining boots. It shocked Bairstow to his core and he stared at the phlegm that lay on the marble floor and looked up in horror at the expression on the face of the Protector.
"Your age?" spewed the Protector with revulsion. "Your age? Are you admitting that you are now too old to hold your post, Bairstow? To fulfill your duty to the country? Ah, yes, I can see the marks of time on your body. Everyone here can!" With this, the Protector opened his arms wide to encompass the House. "Your uniform is ill fitting around a body that has already begun to shrink and grow weak with age."
Several soft chuckles could be heard from the House along with a couple of 'hear, hear!'s. Like the actors on a stage, the council members knew their role well and played it to perfection. The Knight grimaced, despite his resolve to show no emotion. He had made an error in word choice; he would pay dearly for this in time. The Protector had once hinted that his age would one day remove him and now he worried that perhaps he had just given the bastard the ammunition for his bow and that he had pointed the arrow at his own heart. The irony here was not lost on him that the Protector was at least ten years older than Bairstow. Admittedly, it was true that his uniform was a little looser these days than in the past. It was so hard to keep up his muscle mass without working daily at keeping up his strength. He had already felt the boney fingers of age working their cold methodical way into his mind and body. He worked that much harder at staying fit, but it required so much of his time that he could little afford to these days. He had briefly pondered retirement but tossed the thought away – his duty to his country would remain firmly on his shoulders until the day he died, proudly wearing this same uniform. He would be buried in this uniform, he knew, and then fought to keep a smile from his face when he realised he was wearing his own funeral clothes.
"Are you now too old, Bairstow? Is that why you smile? You welcome the grave after so many years of less than stellar service to your country?" The scorn in the Protector's voice was clear to all and more hoots from the House followed. The Protector was warmed to the subject now as he placed his hands on the arm rests of the throne, pushing him forward. "I ask you here to this esteemed House to speak to issues at hand and you blame your delay to these official summons on age. For how much longer should I continue to support you in front of this House? You should know that the House calls for your removal daily, but I alone resist and stand in their way. You owe your position and fealty to me, Bairstow. I alone hold your future in my hands and you should be wary of insulting this office and this House."
The Protector's initial soft voice had risen and could no longer mask the vitriol in it and the catcalls from the House faded to silence. The council members knew the deer was blooded and the wolf was closing in for the kill. Their instincts now kept them quiet and hidden in the forest of the council chairs.
"When I demand your presence in the House, you will answer without delay and with all due haste. Do I make myself clear?" The last few words came out as almost a shout from the Protector. Bairstow glared at the gob of glistening spit that lay at his feet and let the words wash over him. He was repulsed not by nearly being spat on, but by the act itself in this hallowed chamber that should represent the best that men of office could offer. These puppets were the worst the land could offer. He was surrounded by corruption and vanities. He longed to lash out and smite these men. He would crush them and replace them with men of honour. But his own power was an illusion. He too was pulled by the strings of the Protector and he had already done questionable actions when he had thought he was doing good for the better of the land. Little by little, the Protector had corrupted his own honour and one day, he had discovered to his horror that all those little acts for the greater good had not made a right. He struggled daily with his shame. He could not forget, though, that he alone provided the sole buffer between the Protector and his men. That was what kept him fighting to remain in his position more than anything else – to protect his men from this madness. Let the shame be his and keep his men free of the stain. And so he fought against his rising anger and stood silently, taking the berating he knew he did not deserve. He seethed inside with the knowledge that he had made them wait for a mere moment in time. You would have thought a war had been fought and lost in that time, he thought.
With the silence drawing on, Bairstow realised he owed the Protector an answer and so he raised his eyes momentarily to the Protector's and answered in a loud, clear parade ground voice. "Yes, Lord Protector. You have made yourself clear." His voice reverberated around the chamber, the sound of authority and command rich in the tones.
The Protector glared at the sound and considered the words. Bairstow knew that he had skirted the actual question but he also knew that the Protector could not draw that out without losing face himself. He heard the Protector suck in air through his teeth and waited.
A few moments passed and Bairstow took the opportunity to distract himself with some logistical issues that had risen lately with a new influx of recruits into the military. Some of his senior men had voiced concerns regarding the quality of the new men and surprisingly, this had made it all the way to his desk. Those issues bore some attention on his part. Something was not being said and he had to find a way to read what was being said between the lines. The problem had been sitting in his head for days now without resolution. So far, he had only found that the new recruits were not typically coming from local recruitment drives. Recruiting officers had reported that the new recruits were not known by the locals in the regions they were being picked up from. It bears attention, yes indeed, thought Bairstow. The smallest of details is often what ends up biting you in the ass the hardest when the sky falls.
"Look at me," hissed the Protector and Bairstow calmly raised his eyes to the hatred that was returned. "You will very well remember that promise or I'll have you hung by your balls from the castle walls."
Bairstow simply nodded in return with an impassive face.
"And now," droned the Protector as he settled back into the throne. "The reason I summoned you..."
General Brent Bairstow, head of the Lord Protector's Guard and younger brother to Frederick, headed through the Waiting Room outside the Protector's audience chamber. His brother was still in attendance inside that lofty chamber and Brent was concerned. He had been trying to see the Protector for the last couple of weeks and he had been denied. It did not bode well.
The petitioners waiting and sitting patiently along the walls on both sides of the chamber rose quickly to their feet at his passing, bowing their heads in respect. He nodded in return and exited the room for the back hallways that led to the military offices. The two guards standing at attention at the exit saluted as he passed by, snapping their pikes upright and loudly slapping them with their left arms straight across their bodies parallel to the ground. He ordered them at ease without pause and carried on quickly past them toward his brother's office.
From years of striding the same path, he made his way down the twisting corridors to Frederick's office without much thought. He nodded to the two guards posted outside the office, entered and flopped down in the chair positioned before the ornate desk. He didn't have to wait long before his brother entered the room, grunting in surprise at finding his brother already inside and seated in front of his desk with both feet propped upon it. Brent watched as he purposefully looked around his office ignoring the impropriety of a General lounging with such disrespect.
"Hello, brother," Brent said.
Frederick continued to ignore him and stepped quickly back out into the adjoining antechamber where his visitors normally would wait. Brent heard him thank and dismiss the guards stationed at his door, and asked them to return in a half hour. Brent heard their salute and listened to them stride down the corridor until the sound of their footsteps faded. Frederick returned inside and shut the door.
He made a show of removing his sword and hanging it on a wooden peg behind his desk, where it would always be within easy reach. He sla
pped his gauntlets onto the desk corner and collapsed into his chair with a loud, explosive exhale of breath. He glared across his desk at Brent, who was now fully reclined and doing his best to plaster a cheeky grin on his face.
"Brother," spoke Brent with a laugh. "You look like shit!"
Bairstow glowered through his bushy, white eyebrows at his younger brother looking like he was trying hard to think of a witty response but failing. "Fuck off, Brent. That was truly horrible."
Brent, the younger of the two by a scant four years, nodded sagely and found no offence in the language; he'd used worse himself. He knew what political troubles his brother faced and the delicate balance he maintained in his working relationship with the Protector. It was a heavy mantle that his brother wore and one he could personally relate to by being the General in charge of the Lord Protector's Guard. Which also meant that he was also next in line for his brother's position, should his brother resign himself to retire or – should the unthinkable happen – he be unwillingly removed from office. Still, that didn't mean that he couldn't find opportunities to poke the bear – the nickname his brother was known by throughout the Army and Guard. Brent was known as the Fox and secretly relished the name but suspected his brother had already figured that part out. And the title Fox gave him a certain 'air' that he was always more than happy to embellish, given the opportunity.
The difference in the two men was startling enough that you would never guess they were brothers from the same parents. Bairstow's hair, now mostly gone from wearing a helmet all these years and what now remained at the sides was speckled heavily with white, was once a rich brown while Brent's was reddish–blond, hence the nickname. The older brother sported hazel eyes and Brent had eyes a blue so deep that they often won him the favours of many of the less chaste women in the castle – both married and single. Brent also looked much younger of the two even though Brent was now forty–five. Neither man was married, both having chosen a simple and solitary marriage to the demands of military life instead.
Duilleog (A New Druids Series Book 1) Page 20
