The Queen at War

by K. A. S. Quinn

  ‘We need to get him away from here,’ James shouted. ‘I pray the cab is still waiting.’

  ‘Are you witless?’ DuQuelle gasped. ‘Katie knows what’s coming, and yet she does not flee.’

  Something crossed Katie’s foot, slapping against her ankle. She leapt back repulsed. It was a snake, and then a rat. A glance over her shoulder showed Belzen was closing in. She could see his strange blunted nose and his small glittering eyes. She shuddered, but worse was to come. As Belzen took in the three figures, desperately limping, he began to writhe and sink to the ground. With dread, Katie knew that Lord Belzen was about to transform himself. He’d been aroused by their weakness, and was preparing for the kill.

  Suddenly Katie’s fear turned to fury. ‘I will not die like this,’ she thought. ‘I can’t let that ghastly thing drink my blood, fill me with tar and gouge out my eyes. I have nice eyes . . .’ Belzen was gaining on them. She could hear the slithering of his great mass even through the wild winds. But she would not abandon DuQuelle, and she had no weapons, no pistol, no knife. Lord Belzen was at their heels. The ground rumbled under his surging weight. She couldn’t bear the idea of facing him. How horrible, to see what he had become – a snake, a man, a serpent. That was almost as bad as what would happen next, when he caught them.

  Then DuQuelle’s voice, soft and slight, was in her ear. ‘Use your head, or at the least what is on top of it, Katie.’ In a panic, almost without thinking, she pulled the top hat from her head and, turning, pushed it blindly over Belzen’s snout and glittering eyes.

  Lord Belzen coiled back upon himself; this stopped him for but a moment. Katie urged the others forward. She had gained seconds, but every second counted. The very heavens seemed to rage. With a loud groan, a mighty oak gave way close by, uprooted after hundreds of years. Slowly at first, the tree bowed towards the earth, and then in a rush it crashed to the ground. Branches tore past Katie, ripping her clothes and scratching her skin. But the bulk of the tree landed upon the transforming figure of Lord Belzen.

  Then there was silence. The storm had passed, so abruptly that the silence had a violence of its own. DuQuelle’s white skin had become almost transparent, the deep lines on his face tinged with green.

  James looked at him with growing concern. ‘I have my medical kit here, but I doubt it will be much help to you,’ he said to DuQuelle. ‘Let’s get you to the cab. Then you can tell us what to do.’ DuQuelle licked his lips and closed his eyes. His breathing was shallow. His arm around Katie’s neck was ice-cold.

  ‘I think we should carry him,’ she said to James. ‘And let’s get out of here fast. That thing you saw behind us: I can guarantee the falling tree hasn’t killed it. It was never alive in the first place.’

  James gave Katie a long look as they struggled across the Heath, DuQuelle between them. ‘What was that thing – that came out of the woods? I can tell you know, Katie.’

  ‘It was Lord Belzen,’ she answered. ‘He must have been drawn by the excitement of the duel. He feeds off brute force. But I can’t understand why he would pick this particular duel. There’s so much brutality in the world. It wouldn’t be a feast for him, really just a snack. Then he changed, he began to transform. Why? Was it the duel, the blood that was coming, the death? Maybe DuQuelle had angered him in some way.’

  Though weaker by the moment DuQuelle could still speak. ‘You have it wrong,’ he said weakly. ‘I could never excite Lord Belzen in such a way. I am afraid, my dear, that it was you . . .’

  True to his word, the cabbie was waiting for them. He looked astonished by what turned up. The young man was not wounded, but he and his second carried a man who seemed half-dead. The second was in bad shape too, clothes torn, skin bleeding. Long black hair tumbled down his back. He . . . was a she!

  Katie reached into Bernardo DuQuelle’s pocket and found a gold sovereign. ‘Here,’ she cried, tossing it to the driver. ‘To Buckingham Palace!’ They loaded Bernardo DuQuelle into the carriage and the cab lurched forward.

  Katie could barely look at Bernardo DuQuelle. His strange green eyes glittered too brightly; his mouth was a thin red line drawn crudely on his white face. His breathing came in sharp pants.

  James went to work immediately. Laying DuQuelle down on the carriage floor, he loosened his cravat and took the studs out of his shirt. ‘I was concentrating on Twisted,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see what happened. Where did he get hit?’

  ‘I think it was his chest, or his shoulder.’ Katie replied. DuQuelle was staring at her. His eyes glowed. James took a sponge and some alcohol from his medical bag.

  ‘There are no blood stains,’ he said.

  Opening DuQuelle’s shirt, James ran his hand across his chest. ‘Ah, here is the wound,’ he said. ‘Close to the heart, but not fatal, I hope.’ He soaked the sponge in the alcohol and swathed the area. ‘How strange,’ he murmured, ‘there is no bleeding. Could it be that deep a wound? It is more dangerous than I thought.’

  Then Katie remembered the day in the rose garden when Lord Twisted had challenged James to the duel. Bernardo DuQuelle had pricked his finger on a rose.

  ‘He is not bleeding,’ she said, ‘because he has no blood.’

  James looked shocked, and Katie felt quite queasy, but Bernardo DuQuelle smiled up at her. ‘I begin to believe you are worthy of the Tempus,’ he whispered.

  James stared down at his patient. ‘This is what I feared,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how to help you. Tell me what to do.’

  Katie could see the open wound, near the heart. A silver fluid like liquid mercury seeped from the edges. DuQuelle began to wheeze, but now the sound came from the wound. The silver fluid began to shine. It bubbled slightly and then rose like mist from his chest. Above him it reformed, into a new shape – the shape of words:

  It is never too late to be what you might have been.

  For a moment the words hung above them in the carriage, then dissolved into nothing.

  Men do not stumble over mountains, but over molehills.

  The words formed and reformed, seeping from the wound in Bernardo DuQuelle’s chest. It was fascinating and terrifying. ‘What’s happening?’ Katie cried. ‘You’re, like, bleeding words. Why are you doing this?’

  DuQuelle’s voice was barely audible. ‘I am losing what is best in me, what is hard gained, most important . . . I am losing what I have learned from you – the finest ideas, the highest ambitions that you communicate.’ Leaking from his chest, the words came thick and fast:

  No man is free who is not master of himself.

  ‘Epictetus, Confucius . . . They are the best minds, the great philosophers,’ James murmured. ‘He is bleeding human knowledge. This is far beyond anything we can treat in this time.’

  ‘Or any time,’ Katie said. She wasn’t frightened anymore. As Bernardo DuQuelle shed his humanity, she began to believe he was, or had been, human. Taking the sponge from James, she placed it on his forehead, and gently stroked his temples. ‘There must be someone who can help you,’ she said. ‘We need you to tell us. We need to help you.’

  DuQuelle closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were having a private debate. Katie held her breath. Was he dying? Was he dead? Could he even die? At last he spoke. ‘You must leave me at Half Moon Street. I am too far gone to mend myself. There is only one who can treat me. If she has not already left for the Crimea, I believe you will find her at Harley Street. James, you must send a message . . .’

  DuQuelle’s voice was so low that James had to bend his ear to his lips. DuQuelle muttered the name and the address, and James’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. ‘Tell no one . . . not Katie . . . no more . . .’ Bernardo DuQuelle’s eyes rolled back in his head, and the words seeped and glittered above him:

  Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.

  DuQuelle’s Nurse

  ‘He bled words? I still cannot believe it.’ Alice held on to Katie’s arm, as they walked through Green Park on an early autumn day. Princess Alice was
not usually allowed out without an adult chaperone, but fate had led her back to London with a tiny grain of independence. The Queen was in a ‘delicate condition’ – there was going to be yet another little prince or princess. When Alice developed a skin inflammation, Dr O’Reilly feared measles. The Queen’s unborn child had to be protected, so Alice was rushed back to London, while the rest of the Royal Family continued on to Balmoral, their home in the Highlands of Scotland. It turned out Alice only had a rash – the result of too much vigorous sea-bathing. It subsided in a few weeks, but she got to stay at Buckingham Palace, albeit under the guardianship of the sour old Baroness Lehzen.

  ‘It was really creepy,’ Katie said. ‘All this glittery silver stuff came out of DuQuelle. And then it became, like, famous words, stuff they teach you at school. I could have learned a lot, if I hadn’t been so afraid that he was dying.’ Katie didn’t share just how relieved she was that he hadn’t died, or that she had been writing to him at Half Moon Street since the accident.

  James walked on the other side of Alice, stiff as a sentry. They were out in a public park in London. He must make certain no harm came to the Princess. ‘I believe you were right in the first place,’ he said to Katie. ‘I don’t think DuQuelle can die – but he can stop being human.’ The conversation came to an abrupt end, as they all contemplated gloomily – just what would Bernardo DuQuelle become if he stopped being human . . . It wasn’t a pleasant line of thought.

  But such a bright, Indian summer day was not the time for gloom. James was safe, and Bernardo DuQuelle was recovering. Lord Twisted had fled London and was now in the Crimea with the British army, his young ward Felix in tow. Grace’s health had improved dramatically with the return of her brother, unscathed, and the departure of Lord Twisted. It even looked as if they might win this war.

  ‘It is wonderful news, the victory at Alma. And I believe Grace had a letter from Jack today,’ Alice said. ‘Have you seen it?’

  Katie hadn’t. She was avoiding any type of reading at the moment. She couldn’t even read a copy of Tatler without seeing hundreds of women swirling around a ballroom. Her reaction to words was worsening.

  James had read Jack’s letter. ‘The troops are marching on Sebastopol,’ he told them both. ‘It is a major Russian naval base. If Sebastopol falls, the Russians will be powerless in the Black Sea. The war will end. The battle at Alma was the first step.’

  ‘And Jack is OK?’ Katie asked, with a tightening in her chest.

  ‘He’s fine,’ James replied. ‘Furious but fine. It seems the Light Brigade did not see action. Once Raglan had gained the intended position, he let the Russians retreat. Jack says there were over a thousand British cavalry looking on at a beaten enemy retreating – guns, standards, colours and all – a wretched horde of Cossacks and cowards who they knew would never strike back. He was certain they would turn tail and flee at the first trumpet. Jack said the Light Brigade were but a ten-minute gallop from the enemy. And yet, Raglan let the Russians go.’

  ‘All Jack wants is to see action, to be in danger – why?’ Katie asked.

  Princess Alice tried to explain. ‘It is serious and dangerous,’ she told her friend. ‘But it is also noble. My mother says the losses were heavy, that many have fallen and many are wounded. But she also says the troops behaved with a courage and desperation which was beautiful to behold.’ Katie still didn’t get it.

  ‘Jack also says that Lord Twisted and young Felix have arrived,’ James added. ‘They’ve set up camp, with the troops, but in the most luxurious tent possible.’

  ‘Well, that will brighten things up for everyone,’ Katie commented drily.

  James nodded. ‘Yes, they are already making trouble. Because of Felix’s position within the Royal Family, he has access to the high command. Everyone knows there is bad blood between Lord Cardigan and Lord Lucan, and Felix seems to have attached himself to both of them and stirred things up.’

  ‘Bad blood? What’s the problem?’ Katie asked. She noticed Alice was blushing and James chose his words carefully.

  ‘Lord Cardigan is married to Lord Lucan’s youngest sister,’ he told Katie. ‘But they are no longer domiciled together.’

  ‘Well, yeah, divorce,’ Katie said, ‘it just happens.’

  Alice looked at her firmly. ‘No, it does not,’ she replied.

  James hated this conversation. ‘It was abandonment,’ he said, ‘and Lord Lucan will never forgive his brother-in-law. This complicates the military campaign, since Lord Cardigan reports directly to Lord Lucan. Young Felix has observed the friction and seems bent on making a bad situation worse. And that’s not all. Jack says Felix has made great friends with a certain Captain Nolan – a brilliant horseman, but a man who bitterly hates both Cardigan and Lucan. Felix seems to be using Nolan to spread discontent among the soldiers.’

  ‘And this is how you run your army?’ Katie questioned. ‘Where’s the ghastly Lord Twisted in all this? Isn’t he supposed to be chaperoning Felix?’

  James’s lip curled at the thought of his enemy. ‘Twisted is living up to his reputation,’ he replied. ‘Jack says he is often observed in the drinking dens of the soldiers, plying them with liquor and asking many questions. Lord Twisted also spends much time writing long letters and sending them off, goodness knows where. One hears that he has got to know some of the officers in the Russian camp.’

  Alice looked horrified. Katie guessed they all had the same word at the tip of their tongues – spy.

  Despite this, the day was still beautiful – one last golden fling before the onslaught of winter. And when they turned into Piccadilly, Alice’s mood brightened up considerably. It wasn’t the imposing homes lining the street that interested her. Further down Piccadilly were some new shops, with glass fronts and pretty things inside. Princesses did not go into shops, but Alice thought, just this once wouldn’t hurt.

  Katie could read her mind. A lifetime with Mimi, the mega-shopper, had taught her to recognize that glint in the eye. ‘No way,’ she said, taking Alice’s arm more firmly. ‘Do you really think James is going to let you go shopping? He’s annoyed enough that you’re walking down a street.’

  Alice blushed. How shameful to be thinking of trinkets when Bernardo DuQuelle was still so ill. ‘I wouldn’t dream of stopping,’ she said primly. ‘It was difficult enough to get away from the Baroness Lehzen. And it is a privilege to call upon Bernado DuQuelle at Half Moon Street to thank him for the protection he has given my friends.’

  ‘We didn’t think highly of him when he agreed to be Lord Twisted’s second, but he showed great courage,’ James agreed, his voice rising over the clatter of horses and carriages on the cobblestones. ‘Why he did so, I’ll never know. You can be certain it wasn’t to save me.’ Taking Alice briefly by the arm, he guided her around the pavement – someone’s horse had been particularly productive that morning.

  They passed Devonshire House and turned into Half Moon Street. A terrible smell hit them as they rounded the corner. The old cesspools underneath Mayfair were no match for the new water closets. They were taxed beyond their capacities. Somewhere underground, something had burst. Sewage bubbled up on to the street. Katie reeled back, gagging, while Alice blinked hard, but carried on steadily. James did not bat an eye. He was training to be a doctor; and if you work with cadavers, you have to get used to some seriously bad smells.

  Among the stucco-fronted houses lining the street lay Bernardo DuQuelle’s home. It was as individual as the man himself: a half-timbered structure with leaded glass windows. The upper floors loomed over the pavement, as if they might keel over and fall into the gutter. ‘Not grand,’ James muttered, ‘but intimidating in its own way.’ Katie tugged Alice onwards, to the front door. She had no desire to linger in the street with its awful stench.

  They rang the bell, and then rang it again. After some time, a sleepy-eyed footman opened the door. When Princess Alice handed him her card, he managed to wake up. Hopping on one foot, he pulled up a white stocking
and slicked back his hair. ‘Your Royal Highness,’ he gasped. ‘One moment, please, inside, Ma’am.’

  DuQuelle’s front hall was dark and crammed with furniture, portraits, mirrors and hundreds of years of knick-knacks. But it was cool, after the warm day, and dark after the glare of the daylight. Katie noticed that the smell of sewage did not enter the house. Instead it smelled of DuQuelle – slightly acidic, a bit electric, with hints of powder and musk. The footman bumbled about them, offering chairs, trying to take James’s hat, his gloves. He was looking for a silver tray on which to place Alice’s card, when a voice from below stairs cut through his apologetic murmurings.

  ‘They’ll be wanting some arrowroot and beef tea upstairs, and you know she don’t like to be kept waiting!’ Katie had been a guest, albeit an uninvited one, in this house before. She recognized the strident tones of DuQuelle’s fat cook, a demanding woman with a tight hold on the rest of the staff. Taking a final bow, the footman dashed down the stairs to the cellar kitchen, knocking over a side table as he fled.

  ‘Do you think we’d best stand on courtesy and wait?’ Alice asked.

  ‘I’m not sure he’ll ever return,’ Katie replied. ‘That cook’s pretty tough. Come on, I think I know where we can find DuQuelle.’ The house was dark, the curtains drawn and the candles were not lit. Katie started up the aged oak staircase, resting her hand briefly on a finial shaped like a dragon. This was not what you might call a friendly house. It certainly wasn’t a clean one. The stairs were thick with dust, the worn steps blackened with age and dirt. As the three climbed, a series of sour-faced portraits peered down at them. ‘Can you imagine anyone ever really looking like that?’ Katie said, staring at a painting of a young girl with a stiff white ruff encircling her neck. ‘But then you two seemed as strange to me when I first came.’ The girl in the portrait stared back. She didn’t seem to like what she saw.