“They stood in my name, and not one of them survived.” He tightened his hand into a fist and pounded it onto the arm of his chair. “What choice did I have?!”
“There now, cousin,” Artor soothed, laying a strong hand on Geraint's shoulder. “From the sound of it, you did what any of us would do in trying circumstances, and there is no shame to be found there.” Artor paused, thoughtfully, and glanced towards the door. “But I have a mind to see this Huntsman and his red sword for myself, if just to quell my own mounting curiosity.”
“As would I,” called Pryder, proudly.
“Oh, blessed Jesus,” Gwrol moaned. “No one asked you, did they?”
Artor ignored the two with good humor, keeping his eyes on Geraint. “With your leave, I'd like to pass the hours of the night out of doors, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of this Huntsman with my own eyes.”
“As will we all,” Bedwyr quickly put in.
“Bugger,” Lugh spat. “And here I was looking forward to a warm bed for the first time in days.”
Geraint looked from Artor to the captains and smiled, his chest swelling. “And I will come along with you, brothers,” he said, brightening. “We can stand together, side by side, and relive our days of battle.”
“It is cold, husband,” Enid said gently, laying her hand over Geraint's.
“Ah, it was colder still in those days, am I right?” He clapped a hand on Artor's back, comradely. “But we weathered it well enough, as I recall.”
“That we did,” Artor agreed.
“And what of you, man of Powys,” Geraint called to Galaad. “Will you stand with us through the cold watches of the night, watchful for the coming of the corpse-fleshed Huntsman and his damned hounds?”
Galaad swallowed and raised his hands in a shrug. “Yes?” he said feebly.
“Splendid!” Geraint leapt to his feet, as though filled with a new vitality. “Then we're agreed.”
He jumped down from the dais and strode across the hall.
“Open the door! Tonight these brothers of battle will face the monster!”
In the end, Geraint remained outdoors with Artor and the captains only as long as the sun remained in the sky. As night fell, and the last light of the sun faded in the west, Geraint had a sudden change of heart.
“My apologies, brothers,” the Dumnonian king said, his gaze darting nervously back and forth, his hand in a death grip on his sword's hilt. “But I find I've not the stomach for this after all.” He looked to Artor, his expression commingling fear and regret. “I've seen the bugger myself, after all, if only from a distance. And perhaps my days of battle are too far behind me, for all of that. But I…I just can't…”
Artor nodded. “It's all right, cousin. Go inside to your wife and child and leave us fools to our foolish errand.”
Geraint nodded, eagerly, and then pounded on the barred door of the hall.
“Open up!” he called out, his voice ragged. “Let me in, damn your eyes!”
The door opened, the Dumnonian king hustled inside, and then the door was shut and barred again, leaving the seven outside alone.
“Well, Artor,” Bedwyr said, appraisingly, “I think that he's put on a bit of weight, don't you?”
At Galaad's side hung his new sword, its hilt cold under his hand. At Artor's request, Geraint had found the blade for him to replace the antique that the captains insisted he could not wear in good conscience. It was of Saeson manufacture, captured during the late war, with some indecipherable runic inscriptions on the crossbar and pommel. If these runes were meant to curry good favor from the Saeson's pagan gods, they clearly had not served the sword's previous owner well, so Galaad put little stock in their efficacy.
Still, Galaad could not help but feel a little bolstered by the sturdy weight of the iron at his hip, which made him feel less out of place amongst the captains, at least in some small measure. And bolstering he needed, indeed, considering the frozen lump of dread that sat in the pit of his stomach, seeping cold fear in his veins like ice. He had been deeply disquieted by Geraint's story of an inhuman Huntsman and his spectral hounds and in no eager hurry to see them for himself. But when Geraint had invited him along on Artor's little expedition, Galaad had been afraid to refuse for fear of losing what little respect he might yet have garnered with the High King and his men.
And now the Dumnonian king himself had retreated indoors, leaving Galaad shivering in the icy cold outside. If only Geraint had discovered his lack of courage earlier, he might have spared them both the trouble, but as it was Galaad had no option but to remain where he was, however reluctantly. He considered the thought that one of the captains might decide to retreat inside, in which case he would easily find grounds to accompany them. But considering the shaking heads and scornful looks that had been exchanged by the captains when Geraint had left them, Galaad knew that any retreat on his part alone would likely be met with even greater reprobation.
It was clear that many of the captains doubted the truth of Geraint's story altogether, come to that. And Galaad couldn't blame them. Having seen what he had in his visions, though, Galaad had come to believe that there was more to the world than that which immediately met the eye and was willing to give the Dumnonian king the benefit of the doubt. But if Geraint's story were true, what did it suggest about a connection between this strange mist hedge and the tower of glass Galaad saw in his vision? If Artor continued with his stated plans and the company continued on to the island, what would they find if they tried to pass beyond that misty veil?
Galaad could scarcely say. If the Dumnonian king's story were true, though, he had much more pressing concerns to consider. Specifically, that he was outside freezing by inches, losing all feeling in his fingers and toes, in the almost certain knowledge that he might soon be faced by a sword-wielding nightmare come to life.
They had lit a fire on first stepping out of doors, which had served to keep the cold from seeping too far into their bones. But when after some hours the Huntsman failed to appear, Artor had insisted that the fire be doused, saying that the strange figure might be kept at bay by the flame's light and heat, as Geraint's story suggested. With considerable grumbling, Pryder and Gwrol had scattered the burning logs and kicked dirt on the embers. As the fire died, the cold returned, with a vengeance.
When another hour had passed, though, the captains drowsing on their feet, the Huntsman had still failed to make an appearance, and so Artor suggested that he might be put off by the slight warmth radiating from the thick walls of the hall, or the light which peeked through chinks in the mortar between plank and log. With that in mind, Artor ventured that they might best be served by walking abroad themselves, out into the dark and unlit areas of Llongborth, left all but deserted as the denizens retreated within the comforting walls of Geraint's hall earlier in the day.
So it was with palpable reluctance that the seven walked away from the hall, their boots crunching on the icy ground underfoot, the steam of their breath only barely visible in the faint light of the moon. They carried no torch or tinder, but moved through the monochrome chiaroscuro of the darkened streets tentatively, hands on sword hilts, voices stilled. Even those that gave no credit to Geraint's tale found themselves disquieted by the silence of the dark streets, or so it seemed to Galaad.
Feet numb in his marching boots, blowing on his fingers to keep them warm, Galaad found it impossible to say how much time had passed, but it seemed to him that it must have been an hour or more since they had begun snaking their way through the city streets. Llongborth was relatively small, at least compared to Caer Llundain, and perhaps not even as large as Glevum, but the only landmark Galaad could discern was Geraint's hall, and as it appeared again and again in his field of vision, first on one side and then the other, now ahead of them and now behind, he realized that their course must have twisted and turned back on itself several times, moving around the city in a spiral pattern, like the shape of a nautilus.
No longer entirely
silent, the captains has begun once more to give voice to their discontent, at least in some small measure, grumbling now and again, complaining of fatigue, the dark, and the cold, and even in Gwrol's case his thirst for more of the grape.
Finally Artor came to a halt, and it seemed that he was on the verge of announcing a retreat indoors, when something moved in the corner of Galaad's field of vision. A flash of white that for an instant Galaad was sure presaged the onset of another vision. But his nostrils were filled only with the sharp tang of the freezing night air, not the customary scent of flowers, and the white flash was too quick, too localized.
Galaad turned his head, and there, at the end of a long street, he saw it.
Bathed in the light of the moon, stark white against the dark street and buildings, it was the figure of a man. It stood some considerable distance away, at the city's edge, and so Galaad was hard pressed to discern any details, but from this vantage the figure seemed to be male, hairless, and dressed in some dark fabric whose color appeared simply black in the low light but might have been any hue. Only his neck and head were bare, and these were shocking white, but for the eyes that weakly reflected back the light of the moon, glinting red.
“A-Artor,” Galaad stammered, keeping his voice low.
The High King looked, and followed Galaad's gaze.
“Well, I will be damned,” Pryder cursed beneath his breath.
Artor's sword was already in his fist, and in a sudden chorus of metal on leather the other captains all drew their own blades.
As if in answer, the spectral figure at the far end of the street reached to one side and drew a blade of his own. Or seemed to do so, at least, though when he straightened, it initially appeared that his hand was empty. Then he turned, but fractionally, and a sword appeared in his hand, as if by magic, its blade seeming to glow faintly red in the moonlight.
From the near distance, Galaad heard a sound like wild geese in flight, and from behind the spectral figure there appeared fleeting white shapes, coursing across the cold ground.
His red sword in hand, the Huntsman advanced on the seven, the voice of his wrath baying at his heels.
BY THE TIME BLANK AND MISS BONAVENTURE had climbed back up from the Ghost Fox's underground audience chamber, made their way back through the sickly sweet corridors of the opium den, and were out into the Limehouse streets, it was already near time for luncheon. They agreed it was high time for a bite to eat and set about finding a suitable locale.
They settled on a public house in the shadow of St. Mary-le-Bow off Cheapside. The fare was rough but filling, and given the relatively early hour they had a few tables to themselves. Miss Bonaventure had picked up some penny papers on their way west from Limehouse, and once they'd finished with eating, she spread them across the tabletop, sipping at a cup of tea from time to time while Blank nursed a pint of bitter, his manner withdrawn.
Miss Bonaventure had ventured to ask Blank about his history with the mistress of Chinese crime, but after a few tentative attempts to draw him out, it had become clear that he was not yet in a mood to discuss the matter. Instead, she busied herself with her customary scour of the day's news, leaving Blank alone with his thoughts.
“You were right about the soldiers,” Miss Bonaventure said at length, the silence evidently proving too much for her. “It says here that there are some fifty thousand troops in London for the procession, the largest military force ever assembled in the city.”
Blank hummed absently in assent and nodded. Miss Bonaventure shrugged, returning to her papers.
A short while later, the silence was broken again. “Oh, dear,” Miss Bonaventure said, eyes widening. “Well, that's not likely to help matters much, is it?”
When Blank failed to respond, Miss Bonaventure sighed dramatically, and shook the papers in her hands, making a loud rustling noise, like one would make to scare off a flock of birds.
“Blank? Hello? I know that you're enjoying your sulk and pout in there, but I think that this might be of some interest.”
Blinking, as though just coming out of a nap, Blank looked up at Miss Bonaventure. “Yes?”
She shook her head good-naturedly. “You're hopeless.” Then she slid the paper across the table to him. There, above the fold, was the banner headline:
JUBILEE KILLER STRIKES.
POLICE MAINTAIN SECRECY ON THREE PRIOR VICTIMS.
“You're right,” he said, ruefully. “I imagine that's not likely to help matters at all.”
The article recounted that a police constable had discovered the body of a man lying in the thoroughfare at the junction of Abingdon and Great College streets, practically in the shadow of Parliament itself. The man had been respectably dressed and in apparent good health at the time of death, leaving aside the fact that he appeared to have been cut nearly in half and effectively disemboweled. The postmortem had indicated that he had been cut across the small of the back while fleeing from his attacker, the blow neatly slicing through the spine and muscles of the lower back. Internal pressures had forced internal organs and viscera out through the gaping wound, and if having his spinal column severed had not killed the victim in short order, he would have died quickly from loss of blood.
The body had been discovered two nights previous, apparently some short time after the murder had occurred, and an inquest held the following night, while Blank and Miss Bonaventure had scoured Whitechapel for any clue as to the identities of the three unknown victims of the series killer. The victim had been identified as one Xenophon Brade, twenty-seven years of age. As the victim had no living relations the coroner could locate, his body had been identified by his neighbors.
Several of the penny papers, it transpired, carried reports and transcriptions of the inquest, but only one suggested any connection to the decapitated body that had washed ashore in Pimlico two weeks before. A reporter with Lloyd's Weekly, who had reported on the earlier inquest, noted a correspondence between the manner in which the decapitated woman's wounds were said to be clean shears, showing no indication of hacking or chopping, and the way in which Xenophon Brade's fatal wound appeared to be a single cut that drove straight through flesh, muscle, and bone. With some persistence, he had wormed from a particularly garrulous constable the information that there had been two other decapitated and limbless bodies found, which New Scotland Yard had kept secret.
So, while the authorities had not yet begun to suspect that the murder of Xenophon Brade was anything but mundane homicide, though a particularly brutal one taking place so close to the corridors of power, the Lloyd's Weekly reporter had laid out a skein of supposition that connected the dead man with the three previous victims, and given the hypothesized series murderer a name: The Jubilee Killer.
Though fatigued, having slept not at all in nearly thirty-six hours, Sandford Blank and Miss Bonaventure hadn't the inclination to sleep, the news having presented to them a new piece for the puzzle that had harried them these last days. The first order of business was to contact the authorities and arrange for a viewing of the body of Xenophon Brade to add the evidence of their own senses to the testimony recorded in the inquest's transcriptions. They thought to find a telephone and ring New Scotland Yard but were hard pressed to find an establishment on the wire, and instead of spending the time of sending a telegraph across town, resorted to the expedient of simply hauling their bodies the distance and presenting themselves in person.
So it was that, in early afternoon, they arrived at New Scotland Yard to find that they had come too late. The body of the late Mr. Brade, having already been examined, had been sent off to the mortician. Worse, when contacted, the mortuary informed Blank and Miss Bonaventure that the departed, lacking any living relatives, had written a last will and testament, and was now being interred in accordance with his recorded wishes.
The mortician had already sent Brade's remains by hearse to the Necropolis terminus just outside Waterloo Station, to be borne by rail to Brookwood Cemetery.
“
Come along, Miss Bonaventure!” Blank said, racing from the mortuary. “We might still catch it!”
It was a mad dash through the streets, into a cab and across Westminster Bridge. By the time the pair reached the terminus, in the shadow of Waterloo Station, smoke already curled from the stacks of the Necropolis line's engine, preparing at any moment to steam out of the station.
Blank vaulted from the cab, rushing across the pavement towards the station, hopped a rail, and grabbed the stationmaster on the platform by the lapels.
“You must stop that train,” Blank said, thrumming.
“On whose say-so?” the stationmaster demanded, flustered.
Blank stuck a featureless white calling card under the man's nose and hummed. “On mine,” he said simply, jaw set.
The stationmaster concurred, immediately, and blew the whistle that hung on a lanyard around his neck. “Stop the train!” he called out, waving his arms to catch the conductor's eye. “Stop the train!”
As Miss Bonaventure leisurely strolled up the platform, Blank straightened his coat and shot his cuffs. “That was an unanticipated touch of melodrama, Blank,” she said with a smile. “Couldn't we simply have ridden on the next train down to Brookwood if we missed this one?”
Blank made a disagreeable face and shook his head in distaste. “Oh, no, my dear. I never go to the suburbs if I can help it.”
They found the body of the late Xenophon Brade in a simple unvarnished wooden casket. A label at the casket's head indicated that the body was bound for the Noncomformist section of the Brookwood Cemetery rather than the more fashionable Anglican areas. That suggested something of the character of the man inside, whose background they would investigate after viewing his remains.
End of the Century Page 18
