A Crowning Mercy 02 Fallen Angels

by Bernard Cornwall

  She stared at Culloden's weeping, beseeching, desperate face. The man was in terror. She wondered if already there was a pain in his belly, a pain that would grow as his intestines were blocked tight and his death came closer. 'Give it to me!' He held his bound hands towards the flask.

  'Talk to us, my Lord,' Skavadale mocked him. 'Talk to us.'

  He talked. Campion, standing by Hirondelle's door, listened.

  She kept the flask in her hands, the flask that would give Lord Culloden his life, but after his first answers she forgot the flask and listened in horror to his babbling, pleading voice.

  She heard the names Chemosh, Belial, Dagon, Moloch and Lucifer. She heard of the ceremony in the Mad Duke's shrine. She heard her husband say how he had murdered the girl for his initiation. The story had to be teased from him, admission after reluctant admission.

  She heard that the Fallen Ones wished to take Lazen, that the marriage was part of the plan. She heard and was horrified.

  Once Culloden pushed his fingers down his throat in an attempt to vomit, and Skavadale curled the lash of the whip about his Lordship's boots, pulled, and the tall, golden haired cavalryman slammed to the ground and the lash cracked above his face and he stayed still.

  Skavadale's voice was like the whip. 'Go on, my Lord.'

  She heard, with shame and anger, how Lord Culloden had hired the man to attack her. He told the story hesitantly, in terror, and the Gypsy cracked the whip about his head, not touching him, forcing the story out.

  Lord Culloden told how he had brought the man from London and paid him to rape the Lady Campion Lazender, to give her the pox, to scar her, to make her unmarriageable. 'But then I saw you! I saw you! I couldn't do it!'

  Skavadale laughed. 'He decided to marry you himself. How noble!'

  She listened and it seemed as if she dreamed, except that the crack of the whip was real and the babbling, pleading, sobbing man was real, and the tin flask of liquid was heavy in her hands, and she heard of the Fallen Ones, of the names of the angels who had fought God, and she listened as Skavadale cross-examined Culloden about the ceremony at Auxigny.

  She listened. She could hardly believe what she heard, yet the evidence of the flask was in her hands. He pleaded for it, begged for it, wept for it, and bit by bit Skavadale took more from him.

  Lady Campion Culloden must die. Her husband, who knelt like a serf before her, had promised to break her neck and leave her beside a hedge as though she had fallen from her horse.

  The Gypsy tossed his whip down and walked behind Culloden. 'With your brother dead, you are the only person to stand between them and Lazen. They plan to kill you. This thing,' and he nudged Culloden with his boot, 'will give Lazen to the Fallen Angels. Ask him why.'

  She did, and Lord Culloden talked of revolution in England, of using the money of Lazen to rot the government and arm the Corresponding Societies who admired the French revolutionaries. He babbled about Julius's debts, about Larke, about Marchenoir, and he pleaded for his life. He shuffled on his knees, his pink cheeks smeared with tears, his hands held high, and he swore on the Bible and all the saints that he had never meant her harm, never.

  She looked scornfully at his plump, tear-stained cheeks. 'You were going to hunt me naked yesterday. First man, first served? Or did I hear wrong?'

  'I'm sorry! I'm sorry!' He raised supplicant hands to her. 'I'm sorry'

  The Gypsy stood behind him. He took a pistol from his belt and pulled back the flint. He levelled the gun at her husband's head. 'Shall I give him the cure, my Lady, or you?'

  She held the flask in her hands. With two steps she could give this man life.

  She looked at the broken man. She thought of her face scarred. She thought of the would-be rapist dribbling on her naked breasts. She thought of Lucille dead. She thought of the lies, the deception, the honour cast away by a man of rank, she thought of the death that the Fallen Ones had planned for her. She thought of her father's trust betrayed, and she thought of the slow, careful, long plot that had curled its tendrils about Lazen. For months now, while she had agonized about love and marriage, they had plotted to kill her and take the Little Kingdom. She heard again his mocking laughter as he had tried to strip the skirts from her in the wood.

  'Please, my Lady! I beg you, my Lady.'

  She thought of her father.

  She unscrewed the cap of the flask.

  'My Lady!' Culloden's face was shaking. 'Please, my Lady!'

  She stared at him. This was the man who was to save Lazen! This miserable, shaking coward was to be her shield and strong right arm. She looked at Skavadale and nodded. 'You.'

  He fired into the base of Culloden's neck.

  The head jerked up, eyes wide, mouth opening, and she saw the horror in his eyes as blood spilt bright from his mouth and then he slumped forward, still on his knees, his head on the cobbles in front of her.

  The smoke drifted through the stable yard. A horse whinnied.

  She stared at Skavadale. She had ordered a death.

  He smiled. He was cleaning the burned powder from the pan of the gun. 'There is no liquid that I know of, my Lady, that dissolves sponge.'

  The body, with an odd, bubbling sigh, slumped onto its side. The early sunlight glinted on the silver wire epaulettes of the gorgeous uniform.

  'What?'

  'There is no liquid that dissolves sponge.' He laughed. That's just water. He was a dead man, my Lady, from the moment I pushed the sponge down his throat.' He looked grimly at the body. 'I just wish the bastard could have told us more.'

  More? Wasn't that enough?'

  'No.' He pushed the pistol into his belt. 'Who's Lucifer? I've not heard that name before. Larke we know, Marchenoir we know, but Lucifer? I tell you Lazen's not safe till Lucifer is dead.'

  She stared at him. She felt dazed. She felt sick. The shot still rang in her ears. She looked at the body and saw the gold hair at the base of Lord Culloden's skull stained with blood, and suddenly she threw the flask away and ran to a corner of the yard.

  She retched until she was empty. She crouched, half leaning on the wall, and her stomach heaved again and again and her breath came in great gasps. Each time she thought of the bloodstained golden hair she wanted to vomit again. The sun had glinted on the gold. She had seen his skin pink beneath each hair. The blood was bright and red and matted and flecked with bone and burned by flame and she threw up again as the memory persisted.

  She had her eyes closed. She remembered the head jerk up as the bullet struck, the eyes astonished on her, and then the welling blood that had gleamed, swelled and run down his chin. She retched again.

  She spat. She wiped her mouth. She wanted to cry. The waste of death appalled her, yet she had nodded to Skavadale. She had demanded it. She groaned.

  She felt weak as she stood up. The buildings of the stable yard seemed to be turning. Horses stared from half open doors.

  She had seen three men die yesterday and felt nothing like this. But this death she had ordered. The body lay curled as if asleep.

  Skavadale crossed to her. His strong hands took her shoulders. 'It's all right, my Lady'

  She looked up into his slim, dark, vivid face. 'I'm not used to this.'

  He smiled. 'I am. It's my life.'

  'That?' She frowned towards the body.

  'Lord Paunceley pays me to kill Britain's enemies.'

  Her mouth tasted foul. 'Do you enjoy it?'

  His eyes flicked between hers. He smiled. 'What I will enjoy, my Lady, is breeding the fastest horse in the world. But before that can happen, we have things to do.' His hands still gripped her shoulders as if he tried to pour his strength into her. 'The first thing we do, my Lady, is take Lazen back from the bastards.'

  She smiled at that, a small nervous smile. 'Yes.'

  'And then we go to France.'

  She stared at him in shock. 'France?'

  'Because only if you go to France will the Fallen Ones gather. If you want peace, my Lady, you must help me
kill Lucifer.'

  She shook her head. 'I can't go to France.'

  He smiled. 'I want you to come to France, to Auxigny.'

  'No.' The word came out almost as a sob. She had seen death, had seen its waste, had seen blood dark in bright hair. She would not go to the land that had embraced death like a lover. She shook her head. 'No.'

  He wiped her chin with his strong, warm fingers. 'Yes, my Lady. Yes.'

  She stared into his eyes. She saw the strength of him. 'I can't go to France.'

  He smiled. 'You are the last creature God made. You may do what you like. You can walk through blood and you will be safe.'

  She shuddered. The first flies were dark on Lord Culloden's neck. 'I need some tea, Mr Skavadale. I need a dish of tea.'

  —«»—«»—«»—

  She came to Lazen at midday.

  She came in fury.

  She carried a riding crop. To her right was Christopher Skavadale, a sword at his side and a pistol in his belt. To her left was Simon Burroughs, a horse gun huge in his hands.

  She ordered the body of Lord Culloden, like a challenge, to be thrown on the forecourt. He lay there, a gaudy corpse that denied Valentine Larke his mastery of the Castle. The flies crawled on the plump face.

  Men watched her from the windows. She ignored them.

  She climbed the steps, walked into the pediment's shadow, and went into the Castle. She had come home. Her head was held high and her face was set like stone.

  She looked at the footman who had opened the door. 'Where's Larke?'

  'The Big Library, my Lady.' The man grinned with delight.

  Her shoes were loud on the marble floor. She led her men to the door and flung it open.

  The library table was covered with books and papers, the tally of the rents and harvest, the lists of Lazen's property, the documents of the richest earldom in England; the records of the Little Kingdom.

  Valentine Larke was standing. He had been given a few seconds warning of her coming. Six men were in the room with him, but not, she noticed, Sir Julius.

  She walked towards Larke, skirting the table, ignoring his men, ignoring the huge Abel Girdlestone, ignoring the men whose faces were swollen from bee stings.

  She stopped in front of Larke. He looked from her to the Gypsy, recognizing the man who carried his messages to France, and he tried to work out why this man should be here, with this woman, and then he saw Campion's arm move, he flinched, but the crop sliced into his face, came back and struck him again.

  Skavadale's voice was casual. 'Another step and you're pig food.' He hefted the pistol in his left hand.

  Abel Girdlestone, who had been moving towards Campion, froze. Simon Burroughs laughed.

  Campion looked into Larke's face. 'Yesterday, Larke, you threatened to put me over your knee. Was it my arse you were going to tan?'

  Larke said nothing.

  Campion's voice was cold. 'Simon?'

  'My Lady?'

  'Bend him over!'

  The huge coachman came forward. He grinned. He took Larke by his crinkly, glossy black hair and bent him over his knee. He plucked up the tails of the politician's coat. 'Like that, your Ladyship?'

  'Like that. You are about to discover, Larke, that you have made a mistake.'

  She thrashed him. She lashed him with the crop and her fury was in her arm and there was a joy in the punishment. Larke twisted, but he was helpless in the coachman's grasp. He yelped with pain.

  She tossed the crop onto the table. 'Let him up.'

  She waited until Larke was standing then pointed at the window. 'My husband, Larke, is dead. What rights he had over this property died with him. You are not welcome, Larke. You have made an enemy. You have made an enemy of the house of Lazen. I would advise you to hide somewhere and pray we never find you. Out!'

  There were tears in his eyes and a twist of fury on his face. He, who hated the aristocracy, had been humiliated by a mere girl and there was nothing he could do. Nothing! And then he remembered Lucifer's words, that he should not be surprised at anything which happened at Lazen, and he gaped at the Gypsy and he thought that there was a chance of revenge after all! Revenge at Auxigny! He pointed a finger at Campion. 'I will pay you for that!'

  'Out!'

  The door to the library opened and Skavadale turned, pistol rising, to see Uncle Achilles gaping at the scene. He blinked at the Gypsy, then saw the anger and pride on Campion's face. 'Campion?' His voice was incredulous.

  'You're blocking the door, uncle. These men are leaving.'

  They went. They were cowed by her, terrified of her, and they huddled through the door and down the steps and stood uncertain, their belongings stranded within the house, and then the first men from the stables appeared, alerted by the grooms come back from Periton House. Larke saw them stoop to pick up stones, and suddenly he and Abel Girdlestone were leading a running retreat, past Culloden's body, pelted by dung and stones and pursued down the drive by jeering servants.

  Three more men were found in the house and sent running by the footmen. Campion strode the corridors, throwing open doors, leading a triumphant, joyful band of footmen and maids. Mrs Hutchinson joined Uncle Achilles, hurrying behind the noisy throng. William Carline, hearing the news that spread like wildfire through the huge Castle, found Campion in the Yellow Drawing Room.

  He bowed to her, his face quivering with happiness. 'My Lady.'

  The flag will be lowered to the half for my brother, Mr Carline.'

  'Of course, my Lady.'

  'And where is my cousin?'

  He gestured towards the rooms that her father had occupied. She turned. 'Simon? Mr Skavadale? Come with me.'

  She walked beneath the pictures of horses. She walked to her father's rooms and pushed the doors open.

  She saw the girl first. The London whore stood in the bedroom door frowning at the noise in the Castle.

  The girl wore a dress that had belonged to Campion's mother, an old fashioned, gorgeous dress of flounced scarlet taffeta and lace, one of the many dresses that her father could not bring himself to throw from her old dressing room. It was the dress she wore in his favourite portrait, and now the dress was tight on the painted whore.

  About her neck were Campion's mother's jewels; the rubies that her father had given his bride on her wedding day, the diamonds that he had given her each year.

  'Take that dress off!' Campion's voice was cold and bitter.

  The girl backed away.

  'Who in Christ's name?' Julius, a robe hastily wrapped about him, came to the door, and Skavadale stepped past Campion, took him by the throat and pushed him backwards. Julius fell on the bed, bounced back with his fist ready to punch, but Skavadale hit him first, hit him hard, and growled at him to stay still.

  The girl looked to Julius, back to Campion.

  'I said get that dress off!'

  'But…'

  'Off!'

  The girl fumbled at the hooks, the laces. Campion's anger was awesome. 'And the jewels!'

  The girl unclipped the necklace, took the bracelets from her wrists, the rings from her fingers and the diamonds from her ears.

  'Get the dress off!'

  Burroughs laughed. The girl wore nothing underneath, not even a petticoat. She stood naked.

  Campion walked to the girl's own clothes. She kicked them towards the naked whore and, as she did, a golden watch fell from the skirt pocket.

  'Wait!'

  There was silence. Campion felt in all the pockets. Slowly, on the table by the window, she made a small pile of treasures that the girl had stolen and hid in her clothes.

  'Simon?'

  'My Lady?'

  'Open a window.'

  He hurried to obey. Campion scooped all the clothes up, bundled them, and hurled them out onto the gravel of the forecourt. She turned to the white faced girl. 'You leave this house as you are. That way I know you can steal nothing as you leave! Go!'

  The girl shook her head, terrified.

 
'Go!'

  She ran. Campion ignored the laughter outside. She turned and looked at her cousin who lay on the bed, his toothless mouth open. 'Simon?'

  'My Lady?'

  'What premises are empty in Lazen?'

  Burroughs frowned. 'There's the old stable house, my Lady. It's not clean.'

  'You will put the Earl of Lazen into the old stable house. He is not allowed into the Castle. He will not come into my presence.'

  'Very good, my Lady.' Burroughs was grinning.

  'With those exceptions,' she turned to the coachman, 'he will be treated with the respect that his rank and his behaviour merits.'

  She looked out of the window to see the naked girl, pursued by mocking servants, snatching her clothes from the gravel and running ungainly past the dead body. And Simon?'

  'My Lady?'

  She pointed to Culloden's body. 'Ask someone to bury that filth.'

  She stalked from the room. She strode through the Castle, throwing its windows open as if to scour it clean, and her anger was mixed with laughter as she remembered the joy of beating Valentine Larke with the crop. All London would know of that!

  She ordered a bath drawn, ordered an astonished William Carline to prepare a bedroom for Mr Skavadale in the Garden House, and watched as the belongings left by Larke's men were taken to the smithy fire.

  She laughed. She was a great lady and she had taken Lazen back.

  —«»—«»—«»—

  She sat in the Long Gallery after dinner. It was a sweet, autumn evening, the shadows long in the valley, the swallows quick above the misting, silver lake. There was the smell of ripeness in the valley, of apples lined on racks, of leaves burning.

  Uncle Achilles, a bruise on his forehead where he had been trampled by Girdlestone the day before, was alone with her. He had arranged it so, asking Skavadale to give him this time with her. The servants had brought Campion tea. Achilles had brandy and a cigar that he cut and lit.

  He put his boots on the window seat and stared at the clouds which were delicate against the sky. 'I owe you an apology. It seems I was wrong about Lord Culloden.'