A Crowning Mercy 02 Fallen Angels

by Bernard Cornwall

  'But difficult?'

  Larke nodded agreement. 'Of course.'

  'Not difficult at all. And most convenient.' Lucifer laughed. 'Think about it, Belial. Suppose the world thinks that the girl went to France to fetch back her brother's body. Such devotion! And suppose, in France, she is caught by Citizen Marchenoir and killed. Who will be surprised? Who will be suspicious? It would be her own fault. The world will say, truthfully indeed, that she was foolish to do such a thing. Does the scheme not answer our difficulties?'

  The mask was close to Larke's face, close enough so he could feel Lucifer's breath. Larke nodded. 'It would answer them.'

  Lucifer chuckled hoarsely. 'So how would you get her to France, Belial?'

  Larke shrugged. He was scared of this man, this clever, clever man. 'It will need thought.'

  'It will not,' Lucifer laughed, 'because I have thought already. I will make her walk to Moloch like a lamb. I will pluck her across the Channel and she will walk like a bride into Moloch's arms. She will die, and we will have Lazen.'

  There was silence, but for the sounds from the pit. Larke looked at the dark, masked face. He hesitated, but sensed Lucifer wanted the question asked. 'How?'

  The mask turned to him. 'By reason. How else? But there will be a sacrifice that I shall ask of you, Belial.'

  Larke hid his nervousness. He nodded. 'Whatever you ask.'

  'I ask for Chemosh.'

  Larke tried to divine what was behind the brittle, beaked mask. 'Chemosh?'

  'Chemosh. I am not pleased with Chemosh. He lacks, Larke, a certain ruthlessness? Besides, I am not sure he is not half in love with the girl. Are you certain he will kill her?'

  'He says so.'

  'He says so, but he does not say when. I think it is time for Chemosh to die and for the Fallen Angels to gather, Belial. So listen to me.' Lucifer spoke for ten minutes. He spoke concisely, his orders clear, and when he had finished his pale eyes, behind the shining mask, were close to Larke. 'You do understand me, Belial?'

  Larke nodded. 'I understand.'

  'She will die in France, because there will be no suspicion if she dies in France; yet she will go to France willingly, out of her own foolishness.' Lucifer chuckled softly. 'Now you may leave me.' The dismissal was abrupt and callous. 'You must prepare yourself to travel tomorrow.'

  'And you?'

  'I am always prepared, Belial. If not, how could we succeed?' He laughed his dry, humourless laugh and then, with his thin hand, plucked back the curtain. He turned and his black, beaked mask quested over the sill to stare into the pit. 'The dark haired girl is pretty.'

  Larke glanced down into the arena. 'Yes.'

  The river, you say?'

  Larke nodded. 'The river.'

  The mask turned to Larke. 'How old would you say she is?'

  'Thirteen?'

  'She has the body of a ten year old. Send her to me, Belial. Just as she is.'

  Larke picked up his mask. The curtain dropped and Larke, looking from the door, saw Lucifer like a cloaked, dark bird; something evil, hunched and clawed in a foul corner.

  'Remember, Belial! Be surprised by nothing you see at Lazen!'

  Larke went. He paused on the dusty, dim landing, and, as he tied the strings of his cheap mask, he felt a dread of this man who planned so cleverly, thought so clearly, and whose day of victory was now less than a month away. At Auxigny, where the shrine of the Mad Duke waited, the Fallen Angels would gather again, and this time the body that would be sacrificed, that would be pawed by Dagon and carried by him to the beasts of the dark woods, would be the body of Lady Campion Lazender.

  —«»—«»—«»—

  Uncle Achilles arrived in a whirl of powder and perfume. 'I'm late! My God!'

  'It's all right, uncle!'

  'You think so? My wig isn't dressed! My breeches have to be pressed. That fool of a servant has torn my lace jabot! I've got nothing to wear now, nothing!'

  She laughed. 'Uncle!'

  'I am late because of mother. She has been impossible! Quite impossible! A polyp in the nose. It is painful. I grant her that it is painful, but the operation is so utterly simple! You sit in the chair, put your head back, and the best surgeon in London goes snip! My dear! You would have thought her virginity was being prised from her! Such a fuss! She thinks her beauty is impaired for eternity! I have had enough, dear niece! I can take no more! My God! Are you wearing that?'

  'Yes.'

  Achilles stalked about her bed as though something peculiarly nasty lurked there. 'It is white,' he said dubiously.

  'What's wrong with it?'

  He gestured helplessly with his hands. 'It lacks a certain frisson of excitement? It does not cry joy to me. It is, in truth, a plain dress.'

  'It's a plain wedding,' she said grimly.

  'So you chose that?'

  She had not wanted to wear the beautiful wedding dress for this delayed, simple ceremony. Instead she had chosen a dress of white silk, simply cut, with a high neck. 'It's got balloon sleeves,' she said defensively.

  'I hoped you wouldn't mention them, Ah, well!' He sighed and sat on her chaise longue. 'Too late to change it now, I suppose.'

  'Uncle!'

  He smiled at her. 'I forgot! You have this strange objection to letting me watch you undress. Very well, niece!' He plucked a gold watch from his fob. 'I shall return in a half hour! And then?' He stood, he kissed her on both cheeks. 'And then I shall lead the most beautiful girl in the world to the altar.'

  She laughed at him. She wanted to cry. She would be married.

  —«»—«»—«»—

  She carried the last roses of summer.

  There was a sigh from the servants in Lazen's OldChurch. Never had such beauty walked to its altar to be married.

  Her face, thinner since her father's death, had shadowed cheeks that only served to enhance her loveliness. Her eyes were bright, shining like her hair that showed beneath the great, silk hat.

  About her neck hung the four seals of Lazen, the golden jewels of the evangelists.

  Lord Culloden touched the points of his moustache. She smiled shyly at him and then Uncle Achilles let go of her elbow and she heard Lord Culloden's spurs clink as he turned to face the Reverend Horne Mounter.

  This was not how she had imagined marriage. She had thought to be married with her family about her. She had thought she would be married in Lazen and that her children would grow with Toby's children to fill Lazen with laughter, tears, ponies, games, nursemaids, happiness and life. Instead this marriage seemed furtive, secret, shameful.

  Lord Culloden made the responses in a bluff, confident voice.

  She made them nervously. She felt oddly embarrassed to be saying the words in front of the servants. She found her thoughts drifting down, down beneath the flagstones, down to those velvet-palled coffins with their coronets that lay beneath her feet. She thought this service was not worthy of them. She thought the first Campion would not approve, that perhaps even now she should turn and walk from the church, suffer the embarrassment, but then the Reverend Mounter demanded that she hold out her hand. Duty held her. She would not run.

  She held out her left hand and felt the smooth, dry touch of Lord Culloden's gloves as he put the ring onto her finger. It slipped easily over her knuckle. The gold was pale in the light of the church. She curled her fingers tight. The ring felt strange.

  No horseman had come. No shadow within a shadow to give her hope. She had watched the driveway each day, but Christopher Skavadale had not come. She had thought of him each hour of each day, but he had not come back.

  Then, almost with surprise, she heard the Reverend Mounter pronounce them man and wife. Lord and Lady. Lady Campion Culloden. For better, for worse, and the town choir, that had insisted on coming, opened their mouths as the instrumentalists followed Simon Stepper's beat and played their flutes, cellos and violins. She hardly heard the music. She saw the mouths open and shut, saw the smiles on the faces, the tears on Mrs Hutchinson's chee
ks, and then Lord Culloden took her elbow, she turned, Uncle Achilles stepped aside, and she looked up at the tall, moustached man who smiled beside her. This stranger, her husband.

  The sunlight beckoned at her door.

  Servants waited there, petals in their hands, and she walked beside her husband to the future she had feared so much and she made herself smile, made herself look happy, and then they were under the archway, the music fading, the cheers rising, and there, facing her, laughing all over his pug-like, ugly, toothless face, was her cousin Sir Julius.

  She stared at him. His face was a shock. There were no teeth where he smiled, just a pit of red flesh that mocked her. Why had he chosen to come now?

  She looked away from him. She smiled at the servants who applauded her, laughed as the petals tickled her skin, and then William Carline was standing in front of her and his head was shaking, his face white, and alone among the servants he did not smile. He was trying to speak, his mouth opening and closing and she frowned, not understanding, and he pointed with a trembling finger to the Castle roof.

  Campion, the petals bright on her white silk, looked into the blue sky and the roses in her hand, the last blooms of summer, dropped to the gravel.

  Lazen's banner, which she had ordered raised for this one day, was lowered to the half.

  Julius's laughter was like a hollow jackal's cry.

  Toby was dead.

  —«»—«»—«»—

  Uncle Achilles gripped her shoulders. 'Perhaps it isn't true, my dear.'

  'Oh God!' She was shaking. 'Oh God!' Petals still clung to her long, white skirts. She brushed at them. 'Burned to death?'

  'We don't know. Paris lies! You can't trust Paris these days.'

  They were in the Entrance Hall. Mrs Hutchinson cried beside her. The Reverend Horne Mounter frowned helplessly.

  There was laughter upstairs, the crowing, savage laughter of her cousin. She could hear him shouting. 'Mine! Mine!'. A woman laughed with him; a raucous, shrieking harpy's laughter. Campion frowned at Achilles. 'Who is that?'

  'Some woman with Julius.'

  'Woman?'

  He shrugged. 'A woman.'

  'Mine!' came the voice. 'Mine!'

  'It's not his. Lazen is not his!'

  'No.' He tried to comfort her.

  She turned, pulling her shoulders from Achilles's grasp. 'My Lord?'

  Culloden, who stood awkwardly in the sunlight by the front doors, frowned. 'My dear?'

  She pointed up the stairs. 'Tell them to stop! Tell them this house is in mourning and I want silence!' This was why she had married him, to control Julius. 'Tell them to stop!'

  He looked up the stairs. The laughter was maniac's laughter. There was a cascading crash of china, splintering and loud, a shriek of triumph from the woman, more laughter, and still Culloden did not move.

  'My Lord?'

  Her anger took away her tears.

  Achilles tried to stop her, but she moved too quickly. Mrs Hutchinson screamed in alarm while the Reverend Mounter, palefaced, hurried after her.

  She lifted her white skirts and took the stairs two at a time. She felt a rage that astonished her, a flat, cold, intense anger at what was happening to her house.

  The noise came from the Yellow Drawing Room. She hurled the door open.

  Julius seemed to be fighting the girl. They both laughed. He pawed at her, tried to tear her clothes from her, and Campion saw that the Meissen porcelain, Achilles's gift, had been swept from the table by their lurching, laughing fight. Plates, saucers, cups, dishes and bowls lay in a shattered heap. The girl, Julius tugging at her skirts, trampled more of the precious plate.

  Campion strode forward.

  Julius turned.

  She slapped him hard about the face. 'Stop this!'

  He roared in anger. He reached for her, his hands clawing at the silk dress, but the Reverend Mounter threw his heavy weight onto the seventh Earl, drove him back against the screaming, laughing girl, and all three fell in a scrambling heap on the broken Meissen.

  Campion heard hands clapping behind her, clapping slowly like the beat of a funeral drum.

  She turned, her face still stiff with anger, and saw a dark clothed, middle-aged man standing in the doorway. He had eyes as flat and hard as any she had ever seen. His hair was ridged and glossy black. He clapped once more then walked slowly into the room's centre.

  Other men followed him, strange men, big men, in the centre of them was Achilles, his wig awry, his face flushed with indignation. He came to her.

  She frowned. She straightened her back. 'Who are you?'

  The man ignored her. He looked at Julius. 'Get up.' He spoke to the new Earl brutally.

  Lord Culloden came into the room now and Campion saw the men's faces grinning as they appraised her. They had hard, scarred faces. They stood like men confident of their muscular power. She looked at the middle-aged man who seemed to be their leader. Her voice was cold. 'Who are you?'

  He looked her up and down with disdain on his hard face. 'My name is Valentine Larke. Doubtless you have heard of me.'

  'No.'

  'Your ignorance does you no credit.' He turned to a huge man who stood beside him. 'Give the Earl and his whore a bottle, Mr Girdlestone.'

  The girl giggled. She was dark-haired, her skin pocked with scars, her bodice unlaced. She walked with Julius towards the huge man who produced, from his coat pocket, a bottle of gin. The Reverend Horne Mounter, his hands cut by the porcelain fragments, stood on Campion's right, Achilles on her left.

  Valentine Larke turned to Lord Culloden. 'Take your bride to your rooms, my Lord. We do not need to detain you.'

  'Larke!' Campion's voice was so sharp, so sudden, that everyone in the room seemed to jump. Even Valentine Larke was taken aback by the cold, pure authority that the voice held. She stepped forward. 'You give no orders in this house, Larke.' She turned to Uncle Achilles. 'I would be obliged, uncle, if you would ask Simon Burroughs to bring some of his men. There is rubbish that needs to be cleared out.'

  Achilles smiled. 'I should be delighted.'

  His movement to the door was halted by a sliding scrape of steel and the appearance, in Larke's hand, of a sword. Larke smiled. 'Lady Campion. I think it would be better if you ordered your dancing master to stay in this room.'

  'Dancing master!' Julius laughed. He capered grotesquely as he pointed with the gin bottle at Achilles. His toothless mouth made his words sibilant and hollow. 'Dancing master!'

  Larke rounded on him. 'Quiet!' He turned to Lord Culloden. 'My Lord?'

  Culloden smiled. 'Larke?'

  'Take your bride, my Lord. She is not needed here.'

  'You paltry little man!' Again she shocked the room. She took another step forward. 'Will you threaten me with your sword, Larke?'

  'If you don't shut your face, Campion Culloden, I'll lift your skirts and tan your arse. Now be quiet!'

  'You will…'

  'Quiet!'

  Both of them were silenced by a crash, a huge, heart-stopping thumping smash that made Campion spin round to see that Uncle Achilles had pushed the statue of Ceres, that he had not liked anyway, from the table to the floor. He had done it to quieten the room, and his ploy worked. He stepped forward, every eye on him. Campion could sense her uncle's nervousness as he stared at Larke. 'Mr Larke?'

  'Yes?' Larke frowned, but Achilles's tone had been conciliatory.

  Achilles put a hand on Campion's arm. She could feel her uncle trembling. He smiled again. 'I fear there may be a misapprehension, Mr Larke. The Earl,' and here he bowed towards Julius, 'is not the inheritor of Lazen. I surmise you have come in his party, yes?' His French accent added an odd authority to his words. He did not wait for an answer. 'My dear niece, the Lady Campion, is the legal holder of this Castle. If she requests you to leave, then I suggest you do so. Do it quietly, do it now, and no more will be said.' He tightened his hand on Campion's arm as she began to protest. He hurried on. 'If the Earl has misled you, then doubtless you
can take the matter up with him at your convenience?' He smiled. 'I think you owe Lady Campion an apology, Larke?'

  There was silence. Campion put a hand on top of Achilles's hand in silent thanks.

  Valentine Larke slid his sword into its scabbard. His bland, dark eyes looked at Campion then back to Achilles. 'You say she is the holder of this Castle?'

  'Indeed.'

  'While I am the holder of Sir Julius's inheritance.'

  Achilles smiled. 'I hope you did not pay highly for that dubious privilege.'

  Larke ignored the comment. He pointed to Lord Culloden. 'That is your niece's husband?'

  'Indeed.'

  Larke smiled. 'Then what is hers is now his? Yes?'

  Campion saw the smile, and saw too the small answering smile on Culloden's face, and she felt as if the floor of the Yellow Drawing Room was opening into a great, dark, vacant space. Larke saw her consternation and laughed. 'Lord Culloden and I are partners in this thing.' He spoke to Achilles. 'I did not come, dancing master, in the Earl's party. He came in mine.' He looked at Culloden, and the triumph was an open smirk on his face. 'My Lord?'

  'Larke?'

  'Do you wish me to leave?' He said it with mocking, faked humility.

  Culloden's spurs rang as he walked forward. 'I wish you to stay, Larke. You're a guest of mine, a most honoured guest.' His voice seemed utterly strange to Campion. It had a languid, amused, and vicious tone.

  Achilles was gripping Campion's forearm so tightly that it hurt.

  She glared at Culloden. 'You will…'

  'Quiet!' Larke shouted at her. 'You speak once more, girl, and I'll put you over my knee. Lewis!'

  'Larke?' Culloden smiled and touched his moustache.

  'Take your wife and do what is customary on these occasions. Mr Girdlestone?'

  The huge man stepped forward. 'Mr Larke?'

  Larke pointed at Campion. 'Make sure she gives no trouble to his Lordship.'

  Girdlestone smiled. There was something in that smile that reminded Campion of the man who had leered down at her on the Millett's End road, who had dribbled his spittle onto her naked breasts, and the memory panicked her, and the panic made her turn, tearing herself from Achilles's grasp and pushing behind the Reverend Mounter who stood appalled at all he had heard.