[Sequoia]

by Adrian Dawson

  With her smile now thrown decisively into the bubbling cauldron of the harbour beyond, Prudence’s face had become that of the spoilt child she was often known to be. Anger, upset and a clear sense of unwarranted entitlement were fighting a torrid battle behind her eyes and it was anyone’s guess as to which might ultimately win the day. The ladylike demeanour and tone she had been forcing upon herself was suddenly gone, her true essence un-masked in an instant.

  In the end it was anger, always the most forceful emotion in battle, which claimed victory. So, when a single word did come forth, it sounded like a vicious cur warning a rival from its food and it caused spittle to spark from her mouth. “She...” She threw a contemptuous look at Rachael, “...is to be your maid?” The words did not so much escape her lips as slither between them as though hunting for prey. Her vile temper was evident. “That... that thing? She is wretched.”

  Rachel just stared back at her, expressionless. Her lack of emotion seemed only to add fuel to Prudence’s seething anger. As Prudence stared back, her breathing grew heavy as it rasped through still clenched teeth.

  William closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them he spoke very clearly and in the calmest tone he could muster. “Yes, Prudence, she is wretched. Which is precisely why she is to be my maid. She is a child in need of help and I am a man in a fine position to offer it, am I not? It is... serendipitous.”

  “Serendippy...”

  “It is good fortune that her path has crossed with mine, or so I believe. You shall find work in the buttery before the week is out, I am sure. Or tend Squire Dowry’s pigs, perhaps?”

  “I do not wish to work with pigs!”

  “Then, from the look in your eyes, I fear you should not come to work with me, for I suspect you are judging me as such at this very moment.”

  As the jostling stevedores hurried and busied themselves around her, making the most of the high waters, it was clear that Prudence’s temper was still strong. She did little to hide the contempt she bore for the wretched figure standing silently before her.

  “Can she maid?” she asked scornfully.

  “Not yet, but she shall learn soon enough.”

  “And is she to be your lady?”

  William laughed quietly. “No, Prudence, she is not to be my lady. And nor were you to be. You shall make a fine wife for a strong willed man some day, but that man shall not be me.” It was a back-handed compliment that Prudence did not possess the sharpened tools to see. Had William taken note of Rachael at that point, however, he might just have seen the corner of her mouth curl upward ever so slightly.

  Having stocked at Aldeburgh for its continued voyage to London, the Weinigleeuwin was already hauling its forward square rigs and preparing to depart. Mistley was not a usual stop on its channel routes; it was only when such men as William’s purses were opened wide that they made such a detour. Van Brakel, for his part, must now make swift and cunning use of the gentle outward winds if he was to adhere to the self-imposed schedule and bring the lioness into its next port with pride.

  By the time William did turn, all he saw remaining on Rachael’s face was the taut, petrified skin returned, the rain running like fresh tears down ruddied cheeks. She was shivering, either from cold, continued fear, or more likely, from a potent combination of the two. He carefully removed his thick jacket, laid it over her shoulders, then looked back to Prudence.

  “We should make haste before a death is caught. Are you set to walk with us?”

  Prudence’s mouth was narrowed and tight. It took a moment for her to answer and the lie she ultimately delivered, even by her own standards, was not her best work. “I shall not. I have... a liaison. With a gentleman.”

  William raised a dubious eyebrow, but smiled warmly all the same. “Then I shall bid you good day and a cheery encounter, young lady, and I shall see you anon.”

  The carts fully laden and impatient hooves indicating that the horses were already itching to reach shelter from the whips of rain, the villagers set off toward the coast path once more. William tailored his pace to his companion and they were soon taking up the rear, his two weary guards following close behind.

  The young, blonde Prudence Hart whose youthful demeanour and angelic features, when combined with a wide smile, did well to hide the cunning which crouched behind, stared hard in their wake. With envy and disgust, she noted that each time the wretch stumbled, William was there with the steadying hand and strong arm she craved for herself to right the girl again. As their forms faded into the mists, her eyes narrowed and she bit so hard on her bottom lip that she released blood as rich as her dress to the rain. The position of maid to Lawford Manor was still hers, she decided, for it had been promised to her. And so, she mused, was the position of ‘lady’.

  But neither would come knocking on her door unless a fresh vacancy for such a maid arose.

  So a vacancy must arise. And swift.

  As a quick squall blew sodden blonde hair whip-hard across her face, Prudence clenched her fists as tight as if they were holding pennies and decided that such a vacancy would indeed arise. And swift it would be.

  She would make damned sure of it.

  FIVE

  Monday, October 24, 1644.

  Serres, Perpignan, France.

  Most of those who had dutifully visited the church of the Arca Dei, or Ark of God, at Serres the previous day had sat, obedient and respectful, and prayed that the harvest would be good and that war would not come knocking at their door.

  Most, but not all.

  After the German allies of Sweden in the Thirty Years War had been forced to seek terms with the Holy Roman Empire, the first French minister, Cardinal Richelieu, had declared war on Spain because French territory had now become almost completely surrounded by Habsburg territories. That put France in direct conflict with Spain and, by association, the entire Perpignan region in conflict with a country whose border was only 60km south of their meagre homes. Of course, in truth, many of the battles were fought much further north in the Spanish Netherlands. Places such as Rocroi and Flanders, but it did not remove the fear in the hearts of the average man that either the war would come to them, or that they would be called to war. No one wanted that.

  Save for Hercule de Montmorency.

  But then, Hercule was no average man. Not in his own mind and certainly not in his heart.

  Hercule was a moderately powerful man, and one of the major landowners in the region but, by rights, he should have been even more powerful. Much more powerful. Richelieu alone had put an end to that. Hercule’s father, Henri II de Montmorency, was governor of the entire territory of Languedoc and a revered military commander who had been appointed as Grand Admiral by no less than Louis XIII himself at just seventeen years of age. Because of this, Hercule was born to fight; he felt it coursing through his blood. What put a swift end to his father’s rise, however, and an even swifter end to his life, was that he among others held no respect whatsoever for the increased power offered by Louis to Richelieu, his chief minister. So, in 1632 Henri had raised levies and amassed troops and joined the party of the king’s brother: Gaston, Duke of Orleans. At the battle of Castelnaudary, Henri had made an attempt to emulate his previous victories, such as those at Avigliana, and led a charge into the Royal Camp heading up only a few horsemen. Cutting his way through six ranks of infantry, and fighting against overwhelming odds, Henri continued the good fight until, quite literally, his horse dropped dead.

  Critically wounded, Henri was captured, abandoned almost instantly by Gaston and, on 30th October 1632, with the 15 year old Hercule forced to watch, he was beheaded in the Hôtel de Ville de Toulouse. From that day, Hercule had been very keen to avenge that death, first by gaining a name in defeat of the Spanish and then by turning upon and defeating Mazarin (or any Cardinal influence) over the newly crowned child king. He could feel the vengeance flow around his body as sure as his blood. It fuelled his heart and hardened his senses. If he had to, he too wo
uld fight until his horse dropped dead.

  Which left little to pray for, as war had indeed come knocking for Hercule. Tomorrow, or the day after, an armed escort would arrive to guide him north to Valenciennes where he would take charge of some 3000 men. Soon he would have blood on his hands, just as the late Richelieu had, and he would no longer be a provincial has-been. Instead, he would be seen as a renowned leader, successor to his father and a force to be revered and respected for as far as the French lands could be expanded. Hercule’s necessities were packed and his luggage contained as much money and gold as he could amass, as requested by the new cardinal, to help fund the troops. His wife, Béatrice, was fully informed, as were his children. All he had left to pray for now was that he, and they, would remain safe throughout the conflict and be victorious in the life that followed.

  So he prayed.

  Being as provincial as it was, the Serres church was basic; little more than a chapel, really. Bare stone walls surrounded basic pew seating in a standard linear formation. The congregation was illuminated each morning, though most especially Sunday, by the vibrant, stained-glass hues of the Virgin Mary and her child as God’s own light shone through them into the hearts and minds of those gathered. Below that window was a small chancel containing an altar, ornate for the time which was styled after the Ark of the Covenant itself. Constructed of stone, though shaped to resemble an ornate wooden box, it sat on four feet and possessed brass rings through which polished wooden poles had been inserted, as though the altar could be carried away at any moment. On top of this box were two carved angels of stone covered in fine gold leaf, their wings reaching toward each other. As detailed in no less than the Holy Bible itself: Cherubims spreading out their wings on high, covered with their wings over the mercy seat and their faces one to another. It was a splendrous piece of craftsmanship in a building way too mundane to ever deserve it.

  For over an hour, Hercule closed his eyes and prayed hard and passionately to his Catholic God, the only true god in his narrow field of vision, that he would be victorious at Valenciennes and beyond. He prayed that his pregnant wife would give birth to a healthy child and that she and his children would remain safe until his return. He prayed that the Spaniards to the south remained in their lands until he could return to deal with them himself and prayed further that the new False Cardinal, Mazarin, the abomination on the Holy Church of Rome, would lose his head as surely as his predecessor had taken that of Hercule’s own father.

  Finally, he prayed that, like his father’s execution before, he would be there to see it.

  Just like yesterday, when the church was full of locals and he should be seen to be a man respected, so today, as he sat and prayed alone, he wore his finest attire. Just so that God might see that he was to be respected also. Hercule was a tall but wiry man with gaunt features and a thin, long face so his short, dark coat was worn over a voluminous shirt with wide ruffles at the cuffs and a flat, curve-cornered collar to make him appear more imposing than he could ever be. The coat had many tiny buttons on the front and sleeves, which he left unfastened below the chest and upper arm. A collared cloak of bright red trimmed with braid was draped casually over his left shoulder and he wore expensive petticoat breeches in a light tan colour. Though he was by no means going bald himself (he was only 27 years old), he wore a fashionable mahogany horsehair periwig over his own locks and sported a neatly trimmed ducktail beard. By his side he carried not a powered weapon, not within a church, but a spada da lato or side-sword of the type popular during the earlier part of the 17th century. Through its use in the Dardi school of Italian fencing, such swords were increasingly influential on 17th century rapier fencing and were unmatched in any duel he might one day face.

  The hilt of Hercule’s spada had sweeping dulled-steel bars and loops to protect the unarmored hand, and especially the forefinger, and had a long, slender blade for long-distance thrusts. The grip was formed from padded, ridged leather while the disk-shaped heavy pommel was polished to a mirror finish and set with a polished brass plate, embossed on both sides with the Montmorency crest; a Greek cross with eagle charges; one in each of its four fields.

  He picked up the weapon and, placing the point on the cold stone floor, began to spin it gently, back and forth between his hands. His armed escort would arrive soon and, in the days, weeks and months to follow he felt sure that this sword would become his sword of truth and that many an unjust man would fall against it. He took a deep breath, stood and whipped it through the air, the sound so fine that it seemed to cut the very fabric of the world around him. He whipped again; back, then turned. It did not harm to practice, he figured; to show his God that he was both ready and exceptionaly able to fight the good fight for Him.

  He began a controlled dance around the church; his unseen opponent pushing forth and being driven back in equal measure; the clatter of metal against metal ringing full in his head. He had chosen to carry such a sword as it was ideal for handling the mix of armoured and unarmored opponents of that time and, when fighting, he favoured the technique of placing one's finger on the ricasso to improve the grip, as he did now. As such, the sword never wavered once and nor did his resolve to fight his way to the end of the path at which Mazarin would meet his end. For a moment, he even considered that it was Mazarin he was now duelling, but soon realised that the cardinal was no swordsman and that such a swift and decisive battle would carry no pleasure. No, like Richelieu before him, Mazarin’s weapons were words, which he now cut down with a swipe - fear; a swift lunge - and a false sense of entitlement; swiftly sliced in two.

  For over ten minutes, without losing breath, Hercule traversed the church; dextrously dodging and weaving between the lines of pews and alternating his lunging and parrying between the Sixte, the Quarte, the Septime and the Octave. One by one he completed distinct sets of phrases. Then, in his mind as he fought, he imagined that he was to slice the chest of his opponent and, at the same time, sense the threat of another behind. In one swift move he carved the man’s imaginary flesh across the rib-cage and, whilst spinning, dropped to one knee and turned to remove the legs of the man behind him. His spada removed both limbs just below the knee before clanking hard against the stone of the altar. Fine chips of stone sparked from its surface as the legless man fell to the floor.

  Hercule took a fresh, deep breath and readied to rise again when something caught his eye.

  Something odd.

  Never had he been so close to the altar as this, even when he had come forward to offer specific prayer. Here, however, just a few inches from the smooth stone, he could see the recessed block which nestled between the feet in intricate detail. This was the stone designed to help hold the altar aloft for years whilst also being recessed enough to cast shows and obscure it own existence. It would appear as though the upper part of the altar, the ‘wooden box’ of the Ark, were merely standing on small, acorn-like feet when, in truth, it was made of thick stone and required so much more support beneath it than that.

  In such an altar, one would expect this stone and that of the feet to be constructed in one piece, but it was not. Instead, there was a distinct slab which was separate to the main pieces and which appeared to be very slightly chipped along its edges. Looking carefully in front of it, Hercule could also see very faint but distinct scratches on the stone below; as if this oddity of a block had been shoved into place at some point since the altar was built. Why? he wondered. Why slide a stone in when one could simply build the altar from the base up and have it placed there in readiness? Why, when one could offer such a carefully constructed altar all the support of a single slab, would one construct the base in pieces at all. It was as if someone had gone to a lot of trouble, and taken a lot of care and attention to...

  The moment the thought came into his head was the same moment at which it resolutely refused to ever leave again. There was something in there, he mused. No, there was something hidden in there and, if it was what he suddenly and quite irrationally t
hought it was, then he had waited a long time for this day. He might never have to pray to God again.

  He smiled. God might even pray to him.

  Placing his slightly chipped sword to the floor, Hercule placed his hands flat against the stone and began to push. Hard.

  SIX

  Thursday, August 20, 2043.

  Los Angeles, California.

  I’m an idiot.

  As I drove away from the funeral, such as it was, along the concrete and steel trail that led me ‘home’ - a trail that seemed so much greyer than it had previously - that was my one overriding thought. I’m a god-damned, bona fide, tits up, fuckwit of an idiot. I’m an idiot for not taking Rachael all the places I should have taken her whilst she was here. I’m an idiot for using stupid phrases like: “You’ll love it!” and: “This is so cool!” when she was offered the six month Cardou gig. I’m an idiot for letting her ever go to France at all; for not keeping her safe by my side, protected every hour of every day. I’m an idiot for not getting rid of what had been my ‘pride and joy’ prior to meeting her - the ‘oldmobile’ - the all-electric red and white replica 1953 Oldsmobile convertible she disliked so much and instead spending the money on, y’know, finding our own place.

  Rachael was my pride and joy, not a car. But I never got rid; never even considered it. Because I’m an idiot. But most of all, and this beats the myriad other reasons why I am an idiot hands down (oh yes, there are lots more), I’m an idiot for never really telling Rachael just how much I loved her. For being flippant and aloof in everything I said and did. For taking what we had for granted because I’m ‘Strauss’ and, as anyone who knows me will tell you (usually with a fairly resigned look), that ‘that’s what Strauss does’.

  The wonderful Alison Bond who, amongst other things, bought my younger self a puppy, teased me over Rachael before she left. I remember it clearly and it makes me smile. I also remember telling her: “Alison, I would cross deserts, oceans and mountains for that woman.” I remember saying it and, more importantly, I remember meaning it. Because I did. So why did Rachael never really get to know that? To feel it? Why, in the many wonderful months we had been together had I never sat her down, looked into her beautifully deep brown eyes and told her just how much she meant to me. Explained to her just how far I would have gone to keep her safe.